


The Rain Must Fall

by Dark_Eyed_Panda



Series: Cherik Translations [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternative Universe - Homeland, Angst, CIA, Former P.O.W. Erik Lehnsherr, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychology Professor Charles Xavier, Romance, Surveillance, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Eyed_Panda/pseuds/Dark_Eyed_Panda
Summary: Air Force 2d Lt Erik Lehnsherr returns home after being held prisoner in Russia for ten years and is celebrated as a war hero. However, CIA agent Moira MacTaggert suspects that he has been turned against his own country. She asks Charles Xavier, a psychology professor at Columbia University, to surveil Lehnsherr 24/7 and find out whether he has become a terrorist.It's already too late when Charles realizes that he's grown too attached to the man.And things go out of control.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Series: Cherik Translations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1713496
Comments: 87
Kudos: 338





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [The Rain Must Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/597118) by 猿猴麵包樹千秋 (chiakilalala). 



> **I want to thank ChiAki for granting me permission to translate another beautiful work of hers into English. All credit goes to her, the creators of Homeland and the creators of X-Men. All mistakes are mine.**

It was 7 a.m. when Charles was woken by the alarm.

He struggled to lift his head off his pillow, shifted his heavy limbs towards his nightstand and stretched out his hand to blindly fumble for a switch. A few seconds later the alarm was still ringing, and he blearily realized that it was his phone.

Charles sighed heavily, grabbed it and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello?” He answered huskily.

‘Turn on the TV.’

Moira’s voice came in straight and clear. Charles lowered his phone and stared at the time on the display.

“Good grief, Moira,” he said incredulously while he tried to find the remote control he’d thrown between his sheets last night, “it’s 7 a.m. and it’s Sunday.”

‘Watch the news.’ Moira completely ignored Charles’ complaints. He finally found his remote under his blanket and switched on the TV on the wall across of him. ‘Then call me on the secure line.’

When the screen lit on and the call cut off, Charles sat up leaning against his headboard and massaged his slightly throbbing temples. He really ought to stop having those Saturday pub nights with Raven. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, Charles had to face the sad truth that he no longer was at college age.

The pretty brunette announcer was saying something. Charles captured a few interesting keywords, so he turned up the volume and put on his glasses. A photograph popped into his view. The man therein had a profound but somber handsome face, with dark blonde hair beneath his cap and green eyes gazing grimly at something beyond the camera.

He slid off the bed, went to pick up a wireless phone from his study and came back. He dialed for Moira’s office whilst standing beside his bed and watching the news.

‘That’s Erik Lehnsherr, Air Force second lieutenant,’ Moira said as soon as she picked up.

“Yes, I’ve seen that,” Charles stared at the screen and replied puzzled. “Goodness, they say that he’s been−”

‘Held captive by the Russians for ten years, that’s right. October 2002 he was stationed at Hickam AFB, and was shot down when he was flying over Kulob in a scout. The Russians never admitted that.’

“They do now?”

‘No. They tried to sell him to our asset in Isfahan last week, we sent in our special forces after we got the information and rescued him.’ Moira was searching for something on her end of the line, there was a rustle of papers. ‘Now he’s coming home. His plane takes off first thing tomorrow morning.’

“That’s great, God bless America,” Charles replied tiredly as he walked towards the kitchen, “though I still don’t understand why you’re calling me on a Sunday morning.”

‘We need to do a psych evaluation.’

Charles pushed down the button of his coffee machine and waited, leaning against the counter.

“For post-war trauma?”

‘No, for treason.’

Charles went silent for a couple of seconds. He could still hear the dull and blurry sound of the news report coming from his bedroom.

“They’re calling him a hero. He was taken prisoner for ten years,” Charles replied conscientiously. “Is this your idea or the director’s?”

‘Shaw knows about it,’ Moira said without hesitation. “Our people need some good news, while we need confirmation.”

Charles glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I’ll be in your office in an hour.”

‘Forty minutes.’

Moira hung up after that. Charles sighed and went back to his bedroom. He grabbed the remote, stared at those reoccurring green eyes for some moments, and switched off the TV.

Charles was recruited by the CIA three years ago.

He wasn’t really an agent or an analyst of the agency, for Charles had an _actual_ job as a professor for various fields in psychology at Columbia University. He was very good at his job, which was maybe the reason why Moira had come to him.

Initially they didn’t let Charles know too much inside information; there also wasn’t some clichéd talk about how ‘your country needed you’. All Moira did was offering him a case, and since it sounded rather interesting, Charles accepted. The next morning he took the first flight to Iraq, and sat in the questioning of the man behind a car bomb attack in Beirut ten days ago. At first Charles felt quite tense; he never liked places that were too hot, while there didn’t seem to exist any place in Iraq without roaring heat. He didn’t witness any torture, or it didn’t happen under his watch, nevertheless the convict was injured. Then Moira told him that in the attack, which was aimed at the U.S. army, twenty-four people had been killed, half of them civilians. She didn’t tell him that his country needed him, for harm done to other human beings triggered Charles more than he was a patriot.

The questioning itself was led by actual analysts; all Charles had to do was to stay outside the room wearing headphones, observe the man’s behavior and body language through a monitor, then write down and hand in those observations. He thought he’d done a rather good job, because after he’d stated that whenever someone approached the man, he showed an abnormally strong protectiveness towards his right leg, the agents searched him again and, with a metal detector, found a blade underneath the skin of his heel, no bigger than a fingernail.

Moira briefly praised his work and thanked him, and drove him to the airport after he’d finished his task.

“You’re one of us now,” Moira shook his hand before he boarded the plane, “keep in touch.”

Charles didn’t get to ask her what that meant exactly before he flew back to the States. After that he continued his life like before, teaching, eating, sleeping. He was surrounded by his harmless colleagues and students, and his sister still caused him trouble every now and then, while the answering machine in his flat still blinked zero. Just when he’d almost let go of the matter, Moira called. At that moment Charles understood that this was going to become a regular affair, and that there were going to be more and more things he couldn’t tell Raven.

Charles arrived at the checkpoint in his Honda. The guard knew him and took his ID with a knowing smile on his face.

“Have a nice day, professor,” he told him when he returned his ID.

Charles strongly doubted that he would be able to fulfill this wish, though he thanked him nonetheless, turned his wheel and entered the George Bush Center of Intelligence.

Moira’s office was on the third floor. She had been promoted after their last meeting and now had a dozen analysts working for her Near East Department. This was something worth celebrating; Charles had never seen a more loyal patriot than this woman; she was, on top of that, a hundred times more intelligent than most people who claimed to love this country.

“Charles,” Moira stuck out her head when Charles was waiting in front of her office, “come in.”

When Charles passed the desk of her secretary, he shrugged as she glared at him viciously.

“Your secretary hates me,” Charles told Moira after she’d closed the door and reclaimed her seat behind the desk. “What did I do to her?”

“Angel hates every man; you really can’t blame her for making such a wise decision,” Moira replied carelessly and pointed at the other side of the room without lifting her head. “Meet Hank McCoy.”

Charles turned around. Only then he noticed there was a young man wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sitting in the corner. He stood up as soon as he met Charles’ eyes, with a timid but sincere smile on his face.

“Charles Xavier, a pleasure to meet you.” Charles greeted him with a handshake. Hank rushed to sit down after he had retrieved his hand. There was a huge nylon backpack next to his feet.

Moira handed Charles a two-inch-thick folder.

“This is everything we’ve got on 2d Lt Lehnsherr, some of which can’t leave this building, you know what to do.”

“I’ll read it here,” Charles took the folder and sat down on the chair in front of the desk. “This must mean an upgrade of my security clearance. When am I allowed to know who murdered Kennedy?”

It was the first time Moira met his eyes directly this morning, and she smiled in slight relaxation.

“I’m sorry, Charles, but this whole thing is driving me mad,” she said irritably and brushed away a couple of pencils on her desk. “The military wants him to be welcomed as a hero, and the seventh floor seems to be more than happy to let that happen. I feel like I’m on my own.”

“You work for the CIA, my dear,” Charles reminded her gently, “you have no choice but to be on your own.”

“Shaw threatened to sack me, but to be honest, I don’t blame that bastard,” Moira slowed down and continued, pondering, “do you remember your first job, Charles?”

“Of course,” Charles shot a quick glance at Hank. Moira shook her head lightly, signaling that he was cleared.

“You probably don’t know what happened afterwards. After we found the blade in his foot, Hasan broke. He asked us to protect his wife and children, in exchange for valuable information,” Moira said. “He told us his organization gets its financial support from Russia, which we found out was true. Then he said that an American P.O.W. over there has been turned.”

Charles stayed silent for a while, trying to assimilate that information.

“Are you sure, Moira?” He asked in a low voice. “Because if you can’t be−”

“I know. Everything you have to say, I’ve heard from Shaw already,” Moira interrupted him. “But think about this: everyone thought 2d Lt Lehnsherr was dead. That year had been the worst crisis between the U.S. and Russia since the cold war. Why let him live? Why let him come back alive? If it was only for information, ten years are a way too long time. You of all people should know that, Charles. A trained interrogator can decide whether the captive will continue to be a source of actionable intelligence within 72 hours.”

Charles opened the folder in his hands. On the first page there was the photo he saw on the news, fastened with a paper clip. Charles looked at those eyes, and imagined this man being beaten, tortured and finally surrendering to his enemies. It made his stomach ache, and the fact that he only had a coffee for breakfast certainly didn’t help.

“What do you want me to do?” He asked weakly.

“Hank is from the tech department,” said Moira lightly. “He’ll put eyes and ears into lieutenant Lehnsherr’s flat. We’ve rented another room in your apartment building, where everything will be sent. You can work from there.”

Charles looked at Hank in shock.

“Is that legal?”

“Mostly legal,” answered Moira, a bit reserved.

“So you want me to watch another person’s life around the clock?” Charles asked. He tried to find any sign of a joke on Moira’s face and failed pathetically. “To be honest, Moira, I’m not hired to do this kind of things.”

“I know. I’m very sorry.” Moira almost looked sincere.

“I’m sure you’ve got real spies on your team. I’m only a professor.”

“They aren’t as smart as you, Charles. Believe me, if you didn’t insist on teaching, you would’ve been on my team a long time ago,” said Moira impatiently. “Don’t you want to find out the answer?”

Now she’d gotten him. Curiosity had always been Charles’s greatest virtue as well as his weak point, and he couldn’t convince anyone that he wasn’t indeed dying to know the truth behind this. Charles dropped his gaze to look at Erik Lehnsherr, and Erik Lehnsherr looked at him. _What happened to you?_ Charles asked silently, while Erik Lehnsherr returned the same grim silence.

He lifted his head. Moira was watching him with hopeful eyes.

“Alright.” He gave up. Moira’s entire face lit up with joy. “If this is going to cost me my life, Moira, you have to take care of Raven for me.”

“In order to avoid that responsibility, I’ll put a Quick Reaction Team on you,” Moira nodded seriously. “Thank you. But don’t worry, it’s nothing different to your previous work. You only have to observe and record. You won’t even have to make direct contact.”

 _Yes, of course_ , thought Charles ironically. He sighed and started reading the documents.

It took Charles one hour to memorize Erik Lehnsherr’s entire life.

He was born in Heidelberg, Germany on April 2nd 1977, to a German father and an Irish mother. His parents died in an accident when he was eight years old, then he moved to Washington D.C. with his only relative, an uncle called Max Lehnsherr. At eighteen, he was granted a full scholarship by Princeton University and studied electrical engineering. He graduated top of his class in 1999. At the same time, his uncle Max died of Giant Aneurysm. Erik turned down several companies, even an offer from Princeton, and joined the army. With his extraordinary language skills and training results, he transferred between various places around the world: Aviano Air Base in Italy, Andersen AFB in Guam, RAF Mildenhall in England, and of course, Hickam AFB in Hawaii. He was part of the 15th wing in Hawaii in 2002. In October that year he was operating an SR-71 Blackbird and was shot down when he was passing over Kulob. It was also the first recorded shootdown since the introduction of the aircraft. (T/N: The SR-71 Blackbird retired in 1999. It was used here because of the X-Men reference.)

As for his personal life, Erik Lehnsherr seemed to be extremely solitary. He had no relatives and found himself in neither marriage nor any long-term relationship. The data didn’t even show any acquaintances that crossed the barrier of “colleague”. That might be the main reason why during the ten years he’d gone missing, no one even considered applying for a death certificate in order to deal with his flat in D.C.

Charles was surprised by the overly simple interior the moment he walked in. He himself lived and worked in New York, but the CIA rented a small flat in D.C. for him to stay in whenever he was working on a case for them. Usually Charles visited it less than four times a month. Erik Lehnsherr’s living space was even more lifeless than that.

“I’ve never seen a place more difficult to install things,” said Hank as they both stood on the threshold and looked around the room. “It’s almost like a mafia hideout. He doesn’t even have a picture frame.”

 _True,_ Charles thought. But for a place that had been abandoned for ten years, it looked surprisingly neat, and the air wasn’t bad either. People from the military must had already come and cleaned up a bit.

Hank walked inside with his toolbox in hand, climbed up the ladder and started to remove the smoke detector on the ceiling with a screwdriver. There was nothing Charles could help him with, so he wandered around the flat. The entire apartment was an open space, with no obstacles to his view except a few columns. Charles stood inside of the living room containing only a sofa and a TV. He could see the bedroom from there, which also only consisted of nothing but a bed and a build-in wardrobe. Next to the French windows was a running machine and some fitness equipment. Outside there was an office building blocking the view from the 5th floor, which resulted in no view at all. The fridge had also been filled; there were ham, cheese, frozen pizzas and some other food lying inside.

Charles felt confused when he closed the fridge. It took him some minutes of sitting on the sofa and pondering before he realized that it was because he couldn’t detect even the slightest trace of personality from looking at this person’s living space.

Raven called him ten minutes later and asked him whether he wanted to join her for lunch.

“Haven’t you grown tired of me?” Charles joked. “Forgive me for having to turn down this attractive offer, dear sister, but I’m at work right now.”

‘It’s Sunday, what kind of bloody work are you at?’ Raven asked skeptically. ‘Don’t tell me it’s the stuff you’d have to kill me for if you told me.’

“Exactly the things I’d have to kill you for if I told you,” Charles chuckled. “Maybe next week. It’ll be my treat.”

‘Of course it’ll be your treat.’

Raven replied happily before she hung up. Charles fumbled with his phone and listened to the sound of the drill from across the flat. Charles came from an ancient and wealthy family in England and was ten years older than his sister. Before she turned twenty, Raven had been nothing but trouble. She drank and rampaged and caused havoc, leaving everyone else in the family agonized. Charles, who had been studying in the States at the time, knew that she would at least listen to what he had to say, while other people were full of bullshit in her eyes. So without a second thought he had her leaving Europe and coming to live with him. Charles successfully persuaded her into attending night school, and two years ago she joined the police. In order to demonstrate her independence, she told him she wanted to be transferred to somewhere like California, where his protective arms couldn’t reach her. Charles didn’t agree in the beginning, then they argued and both took a step back. Raven got her transfer, but only to Washington D.C., which was a three-hour drive from New York. It was boring there, with no bikinis nor surfboards, only museums and government agencies, but Raven still agreed through gritted teeth.

Charles thought about how funny this was. The girl who’d once smashed police cars with whiskey bottles now became a cop herself.

“Professor,” Hank shouted from the other side of the room, “I’m finished here.”

Charles stood up and patted the sofa cushion before he walked towards Hank.

They drove for about fifteen minutes and arrived at the flat the CIA had rented for Charles. It was on the seventh floor, while the place for his future “almost legal” surveilling activities was located on the sixth. Charles didn’t know who the former tenant was, but he could imagine how she looked like − it was definitely a she, unmarried for probably the past sixty years, living with five cats and spending her afternoons drinking tea and talking to those cats. The whole flat smelled exactly like some distant aunt of Charles’.

Hank started putting several LCD monitors on the laced tablecloth on the tea table. Despite his rather timid nature, his movements were sure and precise when he plugged in everything. Charles felt useless once again, so he initiated a conversation.

“How long have you been working for the agency, Hank?”

Hank switched on one of the monitors, and Erik Lehnsherr’s extremely boring flat popped up in black and white.

“About six years,” replied Hank. He smiled briefly at Charles. “They recruited me from college.”

“Have you always wanted to work for the government?”

“No, only because it was good pay.” Now they could see Erik Lehnsherr’s bathroom. God, how could Charles forget that they’d include his _bathroom_. “I have a brother who’s quite a talented trumpet player. My parents can’t afford the conservatory. I can.”

“It must be hard to be the eldest,” Charles said, thinking of Raven. Hank blinked.

“I only said brother, I didn’t mention he was younger.”

“Oh it’s just the protectiveness in your voice,” Charles smiled. “I’m sure I sound exactly like that. I have a younger sister.”

Hank returned his smile before dropping his head to continue his tasks at hand.

“Moira warned me already. She told me that’s what it’s like talking to you,” he said happily, “it’s as if you could read minds.”

“I wish that were true, then I wouldn’t have to spend half my life reading Freud’s bullshit.”

They shared some laugh; in the meantime, Hank set up all the monitors and put a set of headphones on the table.

“How long do I have to do this?” Charles noticed that he was preparing to leave, so he asked. Hank looked apologetic.

“Moira didn’t say, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in D.C. for a while, professor.” He lifted his backpack, then scribbled a series of numbers onto the notebook on the table. “If you have to head out or simply feel tired, call me. I can take a shift when I’ve got nothing else to work on.”

Charles sighed and saw Hank out. Thankfully his students had just finished their midterm exams. Thankfully he also had a whole number of uncalled days off. But this was definitely not the best way of spending one’s vacation.

The car trundled on the sodden and slippery streets in high speed. The wipers couldn’t keep up with the water hammering down on the windscreen. It had rained twice as much the average in London that year. Everything was going to work out, Charles knew that better than anybody.

Then he woke up in his bed covered in sweat, as if he had just been soaked by that rain.

It took Charles a long time to even out his trembling breath. He huddled beneath the sheets and chafed the icy skin of his hands and feet, until the cold and numbness there turned back to the normal warmth. Then he looked at his alarm clock; it showed 4:30 a.m.. He didn’t even have the strength to feel tired, so he stood up instead and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

At 5:30 a.m. he went out in his car and drove around aimlessly for an hour. He arrived at the 24/7 supermarket in the gas station nearby and bought food for the next couple of weeks. It took him two rides with the elevator before he got everything into the flat on the sixth floor, then another ten minutes to put everything neatly into the fridge. After he’d finished all that, Charles had calmed down completely. He made himself a coffee and two slices of toast, and he sat down on the sofa with the food before he turned on the TV and all the monitors on the table.

The reporters were already at the airport, awaiting the event of the year. Before the arrival of the plane, the news was repeating everything that had already been shown yesterday again and again. Erik Lehnsherr’s résumé, what happened to him, how he had been a promising pilot before said things happened to him. Charles chewed on his toast and watched the news with a flagging interest. His phone buzzed.

It was a text message from Moira, informing Charles that she was heading towards the airport with Shaw and the vice president. The plane was going to land in fifteen minutes. After the press conference, people from the army were going to take Lehnsherr straight back to his flat.

Charles still had time for a shower.

When he came out of the bathroom wiping his damp hair with a towel, the news was showing the jet with Lehnsherr slowly coming to a halt. The ground crew came with the airstair and the door flew open. Charles sat down on the sofa, and watched as Erik Lehnsherr stepped out the plane, surrounded by a dozen of soldiers. He stood out, not only because he was the only one wearing Air Force Blue in the group of khaki Marines soldiers, but also because he was taller than the rest. The camera focused dutifully on his profile, his face far more angular than it had been ten years ago, and his expression was extremely wearily vigilant. Lehnsherr lifted his gaze when an official pointed at the direction of the camera, and pulled up the corner of his mouth, looking perplexed. It apparently took him a couple of seconds before he worked out the normal way to smile and the lines of his face finally softened a bit. Right then the vice president came to his side and began his speech, and the media immediately had something new to focus on.

Lehnsherr was standing straight next to him. Except for the times he looked at the vice president, as well as Shaw and the officials behind him, he was gazing at God knows what beyond the crowd of reporters. Charles couldn’t feel more sympathetic; when he himself worked for ten hours a day, all he wanted to do was to throw himself into bed. This poor guy had been a prisoner for the past ten years, and now he had to face those flashlights that made him blink all the time.

‘Thank you,’ now Lehnsherr was talking. His voice was low and his pronunciation crisp; his German accent had worn off after all those years in America. ‘Ten years ago, my reconnaissance aircraft crashed in Kulob. As you all know, I’ve been held captive for ten years−’

He paused. The camera took a dramatical close-up on his face. Now Charles was able to see the dark green of his eyes.

‘I was interrogated and tortured, they told me it would be wise to give up and surrender. They told me that my country had given up on me. I hesitated. I struggled. I have no family left; the only thought that had me keep going was the faith that some people had not given up searching for me. So thank you all. Everyone who’s here today, everyone who’s been following the news, every citizen of America, thank you.’

This speech must have been drafted by someone else, but at this moment no one cared. They just applauded, and the enthusiasm almost made Lehnsherr’s tense smile waver.

When the vice president shook the second lieutenant’s hand again, the camera swiped over the officials in the background. Charles spotted a worried-looking Moira amongst them; the whole thing was apparently heading towards a direction she didn’t like. Erik Lehnsherr was adored by the camera; he was weary but still managed to smile, drawn but still handsome, and his manners were flawed but still so perfect at the same time.

They were living in a country that worshipped heroes. A country that was in desperate need of good news.

And until now Charles couldn’t find a reason worth destroying all that.

An hour later, Lehnsherr was escorted back to his flat in D.C.

By that time Charles had already grown bored of the news reports and was lying on the sofa and reading a magazine about interior design. There was a series of clicking sounds coming from his headphones; he looked at the monitors and saw that the door to the flat was being opened.

Charles sat up. In the corner of the screen, several Marines soldiers shook hands with Lehnsherr, their faces full of admiration. Lehnsherr thanked each one of them and watched them leave. The apartment fell silent.

 _Now it’s just you and me,_ Charles thought.

Lehnsherr turned his back on the camera. He stood in the middle of his flat and slowly looked around. He had no wife to kiss, no children to hug. He spent five quiet minutes on that movement. Then he started to take off his uniform jacket and his tie and also kicked off his shoes when he walked towards the bathroom.

“Oh no,” Charles groaned as he heard the sound of water running. “No, don’t take a bath, go make a bomb or something, please.”

But Lehnsherr couldn’t hear him. When he was waiting for the bathtub to be filled, he walked towards the sink shirtless. He supported his weight on his hands and stared at himself in the mirror. Charles was startled at once. His naked back was full of twisted scars, like snakes beneath his skin. He was even thinner than he had thought; there were signs that his muscles had once been robust, but ten years of inhuman treatment had left only the impression of that. Lehnsherr’s expression was far calmer than Charles’, but he started a series of strange movements. His hands traced down the lines of his forehead, along his brows, nose, cheekbones and chin, then gripped around his neck and finally, he pressed his palms against his chest. He pressed down hard against his chest for a long, long time.

Charles felt like he could hear Lehnsherr’s heartbeat.

His pen rested above the notebook for an equally long time. He knew too well what those movements meant; every morning after a night’s sleep without the help of alcohol, Charles did similar things. They both had to make sure that they were still in one piece. They both had to make sure they were still alive.

Lehnsherr released his grip and Charles also jerked awake. He started stepping out of his pants. Charles turned his head away awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. A few seconds later he heard the sound of Lehnsherr stepping into the tub and reluctantly turned back his gaze. Lehnsherr was in the bathtub now, warm water hugging his body, blurring those frightening scars; he splashed the hot water across face, his features softening. Just when Charles imagined how much serenity this was giving him, Lehnsherr curled up like a fetus, carefully staying in the left corner of the tub. His shoulders weren’t even touching the water, and he looked alone and cold.

Twenty minutes later, Charles’ phone rang. He didn’t take his eyes off the monitor and felt around the table for the source of the noise.

‘How’s it going?’ Moira asked. ‘What is he doing?’

“Bathing, it’s been half an hour. He’s just, sitting in the water,” Charles said restlessly. “Have your people done a psych evaluation in Isfahan?”

‘Yes, the report stated that he was pretty stressed, but currently there’re no serious sequelae worth tracking.’

“I’ll call you back.”

Charles hung up and put his headphones back on. Five minutes later Lehnsherr finally moved. He leaned forward to pull out the stopper and rested against the tub to watch the water move down from his chest to his flat but scarred belly and to his navel, then to places Charles wasn’t sure whether he should be staring at. After that he stood up, wiped clean every inch of his body with the towel on the shelf, put on a cotton t-shirt and a pair of pants and switched off the bathroom light. 

Lehnsherr made himself a sandwich with the things he had in his fridge and washed it down with a cup of cold water from the faucet. He didn’t turn on the TV afterwards, nor did he call anybody or prepared any terrorist attacks like Moira had hoped. He simply went to his bedroom, closed all the curtains to keep out the sunlight, picked up a pillow from the bed and threw it on the floor. He patted it and lay down and just slept there, on the floor next to his bed.

Lehnsherr’s sleep wasn’t peaceful. His hands never left his torso; he wasn’t talking in his sleep yet but was close to doing so. Every twenty minutes he would roll over tremoring; the front side of his t-shirt was soaked in sweat.

Charles wrote down all those things. He felt that not only his stomach, but also his heart was starting to ache.

He didn’t know how to tell Moira that this man wasn’t part of her job; he wasn’t even part of Charles’ job. Lehnsherr should be given formal and proper treatment, it’s what he deserved after everything he’d been through.

He was not a hero. He was just someone who’d survived.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue was taken from the first season of Homeland and XMFC.

The next evening, Hank dropped by. He brought, much to Charles’ delight, Chinese takeaway, and two unfamiliar young men.

“Meet Alex and Sean,” he said. “They’ll be dealing with the surveillance on the outside. If Lehnsherr leaves his flat, you’ll just have to stay here and let them do the job.”

Charles greeted them and they had a brief chat. Alex was an athletic blonde man who looked a bit persistent but was polite beyond his age. Sean, on the other hand, had a way too nice and idle smile.

They stayed for dinner and left. Hank said that they were heading back to their van of a so-called “ _Hawk Cleaning Service_ ” down the street to continue calibrating their equipment.

“Any progress?” Hank asked him.

“He’s got very serious PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, if that’s what you’re asking,” Charles replied, pointing at Lehnsherr who was currently lying on the floor. The whole time he’d been watching him, the man had gone nowhere and done nothing but the essential things that kept him alive. “He didn’t call any terrorists, he didn’t hide any explosives or weapons in his home, he just spent too much time bathing and eating and sleeping.”

Hank blinked, as if unable to understand why he got such an aggressive response. Charles was also unable to understand, but Hank’s reaction was enough for him to sober up and regret his tone.

“Sorry,” he said sincerely and brushed away a strand of hair from his forehead irritably, “I’m just − I don’t really know what we’re doing.”

“I know,” Hank responded calmly. “You empathize with him.”

“With good reason,” Charles tried to defend himself. “You should take a look at how he treats himself. This man is seriously ill.”

Hank pushed a glass of grapefruit juice towards Charles, trying to calm his emotions.

“It’s not that I want to persuade or lecture you, professor,” Hank started slowly, “but I’ve experienced the feeling of empathy towards a subject of surveillance myself. You watch their life, and gradually you feel like you’re a part of it.”

“It’s only been two days,” Charles remined him wearily.

“Hey, it’s your first time watching someone 24/7,” Hank smiled. “Maybe you should go out and take a walk, I can do a shift tonight.”

Charles accepted his kind offer. He went back to his own flat and grabbed his coat before he went to the deserted bar around the corner on foot. Though it offered six or seven tables and a row of barstools, the only customers were Charles and an elderly man who was busy burying his face in his glass. Charles walked straight towards his customary seat in the corner. The bartender saw him and shot him a questioning glance, he nodded and a tiny glass of straight whiskey was brought to him.

Charles had taken a few sips before he noticed that the TV above the bar was showing the evening news. Of course they still couldn’t let go of Erik Lehnsherr. Whether this American Hero was going to return to service was the biggest mystery right now; a general of an AFB said in a phone interview that he was going to discuss the matter thoroughly with Lehnsherr and was confident that the latter wouldn’t turn down a promotion.

“The guy’s got fuckin’ balls, eh?”

Charles turned his head towards the source of the scratchy voice, and found that it was the old man sitting a couple of tables away from him who was talking.

“Every man who’d been to war should know that you’d rather take a bullet to your head and die than be locked away like a dog for ten years by those goddamn communists.”

Charles wasn’t sure whether he was talking to him, but he was pretty sure he didn’t want to continue to listen.

“The Soviet Union had been dissolved twenty years ago, sir,” he said and turned to the bartender. “Would you mind to change the channel?”

The bartender shrugged and switched to soccer, the cheers of fans instantly filling the bar.

Charles glanced briefly at the man. He had buried his face into his glass again, looking either asleep or dead. Lehnsherr wasn’t like that; he moved a lot at sleep as if awake and stayed motionless woken as if asleep. He was easily startled; Charles didn’t even know what startled him, only that he even trembled when his phone rang to announce a greeting call from the Air Force.

Today morning, when he was closing the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet above his sink, he was startled so harshly he knocked his glass on the floor, causing it to shatter into thousand pieces. Charles hauntedly noted down the word _flashback_ on his notebook.

He put everything together into an e-mail and sent it to Moira.

Moira called him later this morning.

‘I’ve received your e-mail,’ she said, ‘you want me to get him a psychiatrist?’

“Yes,” answered Charles calmly. He could almost hear Moira frowning through the silence on the other side.

‘Can you determine whether it’s the trauma causing his stress or the fact that he might be planning some kind of secret operation in his head?’

“No, I can’t,” Charles answered honestly, “but maybe your psychiatrist can. Even if he’s really up to something, maybe a treatment and some conversation could…”

‘If,’ Moira interrupted him gently, ‘imagine this, Charles, if − only if − he’s a man who’s been tortured for ten years and finally turned. Do you really think we can have him crying and telling us all his plans with a cozy sofa and classical music?’

“You’re making fun of my professional advice,” Charles grumbled.

‘Glad you got the joke,’ Moira said without mercy. ‘Now to the actual business. Lieutenant Lehnsherr will come to Langley for a follow-up tomorrow morning; we’re going to ask him about his knowledge of the organization that imprisoned him.”

“Can I get assigned?” Charles asked doubtfully.

‘No,’ Moira refused immediately, ‘but I can hide you behind the one-way mirror, if you want.’

Charles said he wanted to. Even though he didn’t really know whether he wanted to or not.

It was just a pity that he couldn’t get pissed tonight and enjoy a good night’s sleep.

The next morning, Charles was at Moira’s office nine o’clock sharp. She led him into a narrow dark room and left. Charles found himself a chair to sit down, facing the bright, windowless conference room behind the glass.

Ten minutes later, Emma Frost walked in along with Moira. She was a CIA deputy director under Shaw, a beautiful blonde lady who mostly pressed her red lips into a thin line and was hard to please. Charles had only talked to her in person once, and the way she looked at people gave one the feeling that one maybe had dog poop on one’s shoes or something.

Then a couple of unfamiliar analysts entered as well. They set up a video camera in the corner and took their seats at the round table, chatting while drinking instant coffee.

Everyone stood up as Lehnsherr walked in. He seemed well, wearing a black turtleneck and a dark suit jacket, making him look neat and steady. But only Charles knew − or put another way − only Charles _didn’t_ know what he had been through.

“2d Lt Lehnsherr,” Emma spoke up, showing a rare smile. She gestured towards the vacant chair next to her. “Please have a seat.”

Lehnsherr walked straight towards her. His seat was facing the mirror directly, thus Charles was able to clearly follow his every movement and expression. It was truly bizarre, for Lehnsherr obviously was questioning the existence of the mirror. He stared at the glass for a long time, long enough for Charles to think that the thing was useless and that he was completely exposed, until Lehnsherr dropped his gaze as if he’d given up.

“Did you sleep well last night?” Emma asked nicely. Lehnsherr showed a brief and faint smile.

“Very well, thank you,” he answered in a low voice.

 _A predictable lie_ , Charles thought, _but it probably doesn’t matter to anyone here_.

“I am aware that there had already been a debrief in Isfahan. Today we just hope you could answer a few more questions or give us some further information that might prevent another tragedy like this from happening,” said Emma.

“I understand,” replied Lehnsherr.

Emma looked satisfied. She introduced the analysts sitting at the table before they started asking questions. Most of them concerned important things that were none of Charles interest, just like the fact that Lehnsherr couldn’t sleep was important to Charles but none of their interest. They asked him if he could tell the location where he had been held, how he had been shot down, where his SR-71 Blackbird was, whether he had any idea why he was sold to a terrorist organization in the Middle East. Except for those question concerning intelligence a P.O.W. obviously had not access to, Lehnsherr answered everything sincerely and truthfully.

Moira was the last analyst to ask questions.

“2d Lt Lehnsherr, I’m Moira MacTaggert. First I want to say, welcome back,” Moira looked up from her papers. Lehnsherr watched her with an unchanged expression.

“Thank you.”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to ask you about your interrogation process,” Moira looked at Lehnsherr, who shook his head. “How soon after you were taken did the interrogations begin?”

Charles watched Lehnsherr pause for a brief moment.

“Almost immediately,” he said.

“What did they want to know?”

“Anything I could tell them. Supply routes, communication codes, secret military bases.”

“According to the debrief in Isfahan, you said you gave up no such information.”

“My S.E.R.E. training was excellent.”

Some of the analysts smiled. Moira didn’t.

“They couldn’t gain any actionable intelligence from you, but they kept you alive for ten more years?” Moira asked dubiously. Emma shot her an unpleasant look. “Do you know why?”

Lehnsherr was silent for a few seconds.

“I’ve often wondered that myself,” he said.

Moira looked straight at Lehnsherr. Then she took out a few photos from her folder and pushed them towards him.

“Do you know the man on the photos?”

Things started to change. Lehnsherr only dropped a quick glance at the photos before he turned away, his eyes flickering to the glass in front of Charles almost in panic. Then his hand trembled on the table, he covered that rather well by reaching for his glass of water. Charles heard his own heart pounding; it was exactly the same reaction like yesterday, when Lehnsherr was startled by images only he could see on the mirror of the medicine cabinet.

“No, I don’t know him,” Lehnsherr took a sip and answered in a moist voice.

“Take a good look,” Moira pressed. Lehnsherr didn’t appear suspicious but definitely felt her importunity. He picked up the photos obediently, his green eyes resting on Moira.

Then he started to go through them in a steady pace.

“I’ve never met this person,” he replied in an unwavering tone.

“Are you sure?”

“Moira,” Emma finally interrupted her, “how many times are you going to ask the same question?”

“I’m just a bit surprised, ma’am,” Moira responded irritated. “As far as our information goes, 2d Lt Lehnsherr was captured by a Russian organization called _Hellfire,_ and the man on the photos is their leader who has been usually spotted in Kulob, I’m just−”

“Okay, that’s enough,” said Emma. “I believe that’s enough questions for today. Thank you for your cooperation, 2d Lt Lehnsherr.”

Lehnsherr nodded in response and left the conference room accompanied by several analysts. Before Emma left, she turned around and reprimanded Moira severely.

“What’s wrong with you? This was a routine follow-up, not a cross-examination.”

Moira apologized. Emma wanted to add something but gave up in her rage; she only lifted her hand to give Moira a silent warning and slung the door shut behind her as she left.

Moira stood there for a while. Just when Charles wondered whether he should go and comfort her, she pulled a sad face at the mirror before she hurried inside.

“And? Have you found any evidence?” She sounded excited and not an inch like someone who’d just been reproached by her boss.

“If you’re expecting someone who can tell you which eyebrow he’s lifting whenever he tells a lie, I’m afraid you’d have to find Tim Roth,” Charles sighed and smiled. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not the first time Emma did that.” She waved her hand. “It’s a good series, by the way.”

“I’ve indeed observed something,” Charles said. “Can I borrow the photos you’ve shown him?”

Moira handed him the folder, looking puzzled. Charles opened it; the photos were taken in various angles and on different occasions, but they were all showing the same man: dark skin, defined face, and a long and deep scar under his eye.

“We call him Azazel, guy’s completely nuts,” said Moira. “Like I’ve mentioned before, he basically runs Hellfire. If anyone has the guts to shoot down an American scout on foreign soil, it’s got to be him. I just don’t understand−”

“I think this man was Lehnsherr’s interrogator,” Charles interrupted her. Moira looked at him.

“How come?”

“I’m only guessing. Anyway he’s met this man before,” said Charles. “Remember the things I said in the e-mail about him suffering PTSD?”

Moira nodded.

“When he saw these photos, he showed the same reaction like when he had his flashbacks,” Charles put down the folder. “He’s afraid, Moira.”

“Of course,” said Moira softly, “but more importantly, _what_ is he afraid of?”

There were too many things that Lehnsherr could be afraid of.

During the next week, his condition became more and more stable. He still had nightmares and couldn’t sleep well, but he wasn’t easily startled by every little noise anymore, he was able to answer the phone and the doorbell calmly and his diet was gradually showing more variety. The first time he decided to grab a pan and make himself pasta, Charles felt truly happy for him.

He sometimes headed out as well, driving a rather conspicuous black jeep, which Alex and Sean followed from a safe distance, and they sent back the video data to Charles. Mostly he went to those never-ending meetings and debriefs, or shopped for his groceries at the local supermarket.

On Wednesday Lehnsherr was meeting the AFB general that had spoken in the news in a café near his home and Alex recorded their conversation. Except for the invitation for a speech at the AFB and some small talk, there was nothing remarkable. He hadn’t yet expressed the wish to rejoin the army or take part in any television interviews.

A dozen of reporters lurked around his apartment building like a bunch of bloodthirsty sharks. The guards had Lehnsherr dodging them by using the private entry from the garage. Until now there hadn’t been any incident, but Charles should have seen it coming − the reporters of this country had been invading other people’s privacy for years, using “freedom of the press” as an excuse, and Lehnsherr’s avoidance made them even crazier for their big headline. It happened around ten o’clock in the evening. Lehnsherr was sitting on his sofa reading a sales catalogue; everything was the same as usual and Charles could already guess what he was going to do next, so he’d called Alex and Sean half an hour ago and told them to go home and have some rest.

Then the doorbell rang.

Charles was about to open a bottle of liquor in his kitchen, so he’d switched onto loudspeaker, and the bell almost made him turn around and check his own door. But then Lehnsherr got up from the sofa and his footfalls on the wooden floor had him realize whose door it was; Charles put down the bottle and rushed back to the monitors.

An unfamiliar man was standing at the door. Lehnsherr looked as puzzled as Charles was, until the man took out a recorder from his pocket, and they both got the idea.

‘How did you get here?’ Lehnsherr asked the reporter displeased; he put his hand on the doorframe and looked at the hallway. “I’d have to ask you to leave.”

‘Oh please don’t, lieutenant,’ the reporter was persistent, “let’s have a chat, the whole world want to know your thoughts.”

‘Do you want me to call the guards?’ Lehnsherr threatened, stepped back and was just about to close the door when the reporter grabbed his arm. Lehnsherr’s whole body shivered, and in a speed that Charles wasn’t able to follow, his palm smashed into the reporter’s throat. It all happened too fast; the blow must have been hard because the reporter reached for his neck and sank to his knees. Charles felt cold sweat running down his back; the dry coughs of the man echoed in the entire flat.

Lehnsherr stood there for a few seconds. He didn’t call the guards or the police; all he did was stepping over the man, smashing his door shut and disappearing from Charles’ monitors.

“Oh God,” Charles gulped out a sound. Then he stood up in a haste, picked up his phone but didn’t quite know what to do; in the meantime, Lehnsherr was running away. “Shit, damnit!”

He dropped his phone and ran towards the door swearing. He grabbed his coat and his car keys from a plate on his way and sprinted out of this apartment.

He lived only a few blocks away from Lehnsherr. Charles raced down a street full of slow-down signs while his hands kept sweating on the leather of his steering wheel. In the darkness his gaze leapt past every vehicle and pedestrian − God, he didn’t even know whether Lehnsherr was going by car or on foot. Fortunately, Charles spotted a familiar black jeep fifteen minutes later, only a couple feet away from Lehnsherr’s flat.

Charles slowed down and watched the jeep making an illegal left turn; he followed immediately while keeping a safe distance. He suddenly remembered that maybe he should call Moira or Hank, but then also remembered he’d left his phone on the tea table in a hurry, so he was stuck in this pinch now.

Charles sighed between his racing heartbeat. He’d spent three weeks sitting in front of monitors watching a traumatized man, said man just attacked a reporter, and he was following him like an actual spy. The possibility that Moira would scold him for it was just as big as she would praise him for finally becoming a real CIA agent.

Lehnsherr kept a stable 70 mph; the streets on this workday night weren’t crowded, and soon they were leaving town on the highway. Charles had no clue where he was driving to, so he could do nothing but follow. About an hour later, he saw a sign showing the distance to Baltimore and realized that they were heading north-east and were already in Maryland.

The clock in his car glimmered in the dark. It was almost midnight when they passed the dim streets of a small seaside town. It started to rain; Charles turned on the wipers and had to slow down a bit more in order to keep the distance on the vacant street. Right then the jeep began to slow down as well, and while he was worrying whether he’d been made, the car backed into a parking space next to a fence with metal chains.

Charles switched off the headlights and quietly slid into another spot before he turned off his engines. Lehnsherr got out the car; him closing the doors was the only noise in this silent night. He had his hands in the pockets of his cotton jacket and stood there in the rain with his head lifted for quite a long time, then he stepped over the fence and disappeared.

Charles got out hastily and carefully went to take a look at where he’d stood. It was too dark for him to make out Lehnsherr, but given the sound of gravel crunching, he was likely heading towards the beach. Charles had no choice but to follow.

The rain got heavier; Charles swiped away strands of hair that stuck on his forehead. The sand was slippery under his feet and he had to hold on to the greyish Tetrapods as he descended carefully. He’d struggled for two or three minutes before he finally saw a small beach. Lehnsherr was standing there, facing the ocean and looking at something. Charles didn’t dare to advance, so he hid behind a huge rock and waited. Maybe someone was coming to meet Lehnsherr here.

But there was no one. In the roaring storm, Lehnsherr abruptly walked towards the water and threw himself into the waves.

Charles was shocked and cursed silently as he almost jumped out of his hiding spot. But he restrained himself and stayed put for a bit longer, before he started to feel an anxiety building up in his stomach, for Lehnsherr still hadn’t emerged from the water.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

Charles took the plunge. He took off his jacket and his shoes and ran towards the shore. The horrible combination of cold wind and icy water was beyond his imagination, but he dove into it before he had the time to regret anything.

He couldn’t see a thing, of course. This was the sea at night, the weather was disastrous and there wasn’t even moonlight to guide him. Charles only saw stirring blackness except for his fingers and he could do nothing but desperately dive into the water, gasping for breath here and there. Then he miraculously found Lehnsherr − well “found” might not be the right word − Lehnsherr more like _banged_ into him, while he, sensing that force, grabbed and tangled Lehnsherr’s thin chest like an octopus, dragging him towards what might have been the surface. During that time, Lehnsherr, like every drowning person, was struggling and fighting back with unbelievable strength.

The moment their heads popped into the frosty fresh air, Lehnsherr started shouting ‘Let go of me!’ and punched Charles’ chest hard to push him away. If it wasn’t for the buoyance weakening the force, Charles might have actually coughed out a whole bowl of blood.

“Calm down!” Charles screamed back. Lehnsherr glared at him like a wild animal; his eyes were lit on fire.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lehnsherr lowered his voice, but it was still loud enough to make Charles’ water-filled ears hurt. “Who are you?”

Charles didn’t want to talk to him while floating in the sea, that would be beyond idiotic, so he swam towards the shore and wasn’t surprised that Lehnsherr followed.

“I thought you were committing suicide,” Charles turned around and said as soon as he was able to stand straight again. Lehnsherr was behind him with a cold and vicious look on his face, as if he could just go and kill something with his bare hands. “I saw you jumping into the sea in the middle of the night.”

Lehnsherr inspected him, his stinging gaze carefully tracing Charles from head to toe. Then his eyes relaxed a bit − probably because Charles looked just as stupid as he imagined: friendly round face, friendly round British accent, looking ridiculously young and trembling with every cell of his body, soaked in water.

“I was only swimming.” Lehnsherr’s tone was calm, which instead enraged Charles.

What was he doing, exactly? Driving half the night to chase a potential terrorist, jumping into the sea and freezing his brains out, just because the man wanted to go for a fucking _swim_.

“God, how could I have misunderstood?” Charles said in an exaggerated tone, shaking his heavily soaked sleeves. “It’s the _perfect_ sunny weather to go swimming, not to mention you’re impeccably appareled with your shoes on and all that.”

Lehnsherr let out a screeching laugh. Charles didn’t at all want to look at his face right know, because he knew it too well; he’d seen it enough times on the monitors, on the TV or at Langley. Lehnsherr would pull up his thin lips, showing a provocative, slightly confused but mocking smile, as if whatever thing whoever said always had some ulterior meaning.

Charles didn’t blame him for it, but he had no obligation to enjoy it, either.

“Hey,” Lehnsherr yelled. “Hey, wait a second.”

Charles suppressed his anger and other indescribable emotions, and continued ascending the beach with an unstoppable determination.

“You’ve just saved my life!” Lehnsherr’s voice rose up due to the spreading distance between them. His voice contained mockery, banter and a bit of overly harsh detainment, forcing Charles to turn his head and look at him. “Don’t walk away like a stranger and leave me in this rain!”

Lehnsherr was standing there, just as drenched as Charles was. He threw out his arms, his mouth stretched into a wide smile, and it looked absurd in contrast to the grim ocean − a bit kooky, even, but it also amused Charles, and he was startled to find himself smiling as well.

“I’m soaking wet!” Charles yelled back. “So fuck you!”

Lehnsherr caught up, his damp pants pulling up waves of sand as he trudged through it, stiffening and slowing down his movements. But he was still smiling and measuring Charles cautiously.

“Come on,” he whispered, lifted his hand but didn’t touch Charles. “Let’s find a place to get you dry.”

Erik led their way back to where they’d come. The Tetrapods made it hard to gain a foothold, and the fact that they were both freezingly wet didn’t exactly help. On top of that Charles had to hold his shoes and his coat in one hand, which made him constantly fall behind. Thankfully Lehnsherr slowed down his pace after he’d noticed that; he gave Charles a hand whenever their path got too rumpy, his grip surprisingly firm.

When they’d successfully made it to the top, Charles first thought they were heading back to the cars, but Lehnsherr turned towards the opposite direction and made a casual but determined gesture.

“This way,” he said and strode down the dimly lit coastline street. Charles hesitated for only a split-second before he decided to follow him.

They walked for about five minutes. Lehnsherr didn’t give a sound during that time, so Charles also fell silent and let the sound of the waves fill his ears. He still didn’t know where they were heading to. Charles was worried but curious at once, for this was a rare experience for him. During most of his life, he’d acted as the confident and bright leader who’d always gone first.

While he was thinking, Lehnsherr stopped in front of a wooden cabin that seemed to swim in the darkness. He leant down to fish out the key beneath a garden gnome and inserted it into the keyhole. It jammed, and Lehnsherr started a long and clattering fight with the old lock. Charles blinked around the abandoned area in panic.

“Relax,” Lehnsherr snorted as he deliberately hit the key with his fist to make even more noise. “Have you never broken a door?”

Well those words didn’t make Charles relax in the slightest. Lehnsherr seemed to be amused by his aghast look, white teeth blurring into a smile. The lock opened with a click under his effort and he turned sideways, motioning for Charles to go first.

“Thank you, but no,” said Charles. “I insist that you go first.”

“What do you think is inside? Bigfoot?” Lehnsherr cocked his head and looked at him. Right now he seemed less prudent as he had been on television or at the debrief, instead he radiated sharpness and humor. Charles had to say that if he’d met Lehnsherr somewhere else today, he might’ve found him charming.

“More like a rifle against your head,” Charles retorted. Lehnsherr smiled.

“It’s my uncle’s cabin, there’s probably nothing inside except for a horde of bedbugs.”

He shrugged and walked into the pitch-dark room. When Charles held on to the doorframe and looked inside, he was already squatting at the fireplace in the living room and fiddling with something.

“You should switch on the lights,” Charles reminded him good-naturedly. Lehnsherr lit a match and watched him through his glistening green eyes.

“I’ve got something eye-opening for you,” Lehnsherr mocked him cheerfully as he threw a burning old newspaper into the fireplace. “This is a real fireplace, it burns real firewood, you won’t find one outside the museums nowadays.”

Charles glared daggers at him.

“Come and stay at the fire,” Lehnsherr rose to his feet. “I’ll go see if I can get us a change of clothes.”

He disappeared into the aisle as he said that, and there was the sound of a door opening coming from the dark. Charles sat down at the fireplace and waited for the flames to get warmer. Now the data popped into his head again: Lehnsherr’s uncle Max indeed had an address in Maryland before he moved to D.C. with him. Maybe there really was something to Lehnsherr’s ridiculous declaration of _only going for a swim_. This cabin had always been here, after all.

Lehnsherr came back and handed Charles a pile of clothes. He had already taken off his wet clothes and was now wearing a fresh white shirt and khaki pants. There was the faint hint of a huge scar that poked out from his collar. Charles remembered the scarred body beneath it, and took the clothes hesitantly, his hand trembling. _How dare he lie to someone like him?_

“You’re,” Charles opened his mouth hesitantly, “you’re that lieutenant.”

Lehnsherr stiffened for a moment, with no notable change to his expression.

“And I thought no one watched the news anymore,” he sat down on the rug, rested his arms on his knees as he curled up his long legs and gazed at Charles.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” Charles said in a sincere and stable voice. “It’s just − I thought I should tell you, now that I’ve recognized you.”

“Are you always this honest?” Lehnsherr asked. It should have been a joke, but neither his voice nor his eyes showed any amusement, as if something was hidden beneath this simple statement.

“Only when I’m too freezing cold to tell lies,” Charles said as he pulled his wet sweater over his head, burying his guilty expression and voice beneath it. Erik chuckled; Charles’ eyes darted into his gaze the moment they squirmed free from the fabric. It was upfront and undisguised as it rested sharply yet hollowly on a bare-chested Charles, making him feel vulnerable, embarrassed and alarmed.

“In order to repay your honesty,” Lehnsherr lifted his eyebrow in a dramatic manner. He made a questioning gesture with his hand.

“Charles,” Charles hurriedly pulled the oversized sweater over his head and offered.

“Charles,” Lehnsherr echoed, turning away his gaze, “in order to repay you honesty, I’ll tell you something that will probably be plastered all over the headlines tomorrow morning: I’ve just punched a reporter.”

Charles wasn’t prepared for the sudden change of subject; hence he didn’t know how to respond even if he’d watched the whole thing happen.

“How come?” He asked carefully.

“Does one need a reason to punch a reporter?” Lehnsherr stretched out his palms towards the fireplace to gain some warmth; the lights and shadows of the flames were dancing on his face. “I only wanted to mind my own business.”

 _And what would that be?_ Charles thought.

“They’re just following orders, my friend,” Charles said.

“I’ve been at the mercy of men ‘just following orders’,” Lehnsherr said far too calmly. “Never again.”

 _I’ve said the wrong thing_ , Charles thought. But then he thought, _how can you face someone who’d experienced everything others hadn’t and_ not _say the wrong thing?_ Erik had seen everything Charles hadn’t seen, while Charles had everything he never had.

“It won’t be easy, but you can help people, you know,” Charles said. Lehnsherr looked at him. “People like you who’d returned from war and didn’t know where they belonged. You can help them through the media.”

“And why should I do that?” Lehnsherr asked sarcastically.

“Does one need a reason to help another person?” Charles questioned. It finally made Lehnsherr smile, even if his expression was still far from relaxed.

“Right, I forgot you’re someone who’s willing to jump into the sea in October to save somebody,” Lehnsherr replied. “What brought you to this remote village?”

 _You_. Charles sighed mentally.

“To be honest? I’m lost,” Charles lied again. “I should have returned to D.C. two hours ago, tomorrow − well it’s actually today already − I’ve got an important meeting today.”

“What’s your job?”

Charles hesitated for two seconds.

“I teach psychology at the university,” he told the truth.

“You’re a professor,” Lehnsherr said this in such a sympathetic tone, as if Charles had the saddest job in the world; then he looked at his watch. “I think you should leave soon, then. If you’re lucky enough to find your way this time, you might even be able to catch some sleep before your meeting.”

Some part of Charles was definitely dying to leave. He stood up holding his wet clothes and Lehnsherr stood up as well. He didn’t put out the fire, though; he apparently was planning on staying here a bit longer.

Then Charles started fumbling inside the pockets of his soaked pants. Lehnsherr watched him skeptically as he pulled out his wallet; there was still water dripping on the floor as he opened it. He carefully drew out a damp piece of paper and handed it to him.

“It’s drenched, but um, it’s my card,” Charles said, embarrassed.

“So?” Lehnsherr pulled up the corner of his mouth, smiling in a mocking and provocative kind of way. “You want to offer me psychotherapy?”

“I do research, I don’t treat people,” Charles said, his tone awkward. “It’s got my private number on it, just in case, ah, you want to talk to someone.”

Lehnsherr stared down at the card, while it didn’t seem like he was actually looking at it. When he lifted his gaze again, his eyes had softened a lot.

“Thank you,” he said briefly. “Do you want me to show you the way back to D.C.?”

“Oh that wouldn’t be necessary, but thank you. I think I’ll find the way,” Charles waved his hand, trying to wipe away the tension between them, along with the other things beneath the tension.

Lehnsherr stretched out his arm and grabbed his hand wordlessly. Before Charles had the time to feel flustered, Lehnsherr had already trapped his fingers in his palm and bobbed them a few times, turning this into a polite handshake.

“Alright then. It was nice to meet you, Charles,” he said.

“The pleasure was all mine, lieutenant,” replied Charles, his heart still pounding fast. Lehnsherr’s smile relaxed. It was − all adjectives in Charles’ mind seem to be crumbling into a bottomless pit at that very moment.

“Call me Erik.”


	3. Chapter 3

All in all, Charles was an easy-going and approachable man. But he stubbornly insisted on having nice things in the small details of his life.

Be it the dust-catching fine wine down in the cellar, or some well-made fabric with subtle patterns; be it virtuously performed classical music or a cozy flat with running hot water; be it a mattress with the perfect softness, or the men and women who’d lain down on top of it and managed to touch his heart.

He liked nice things. He didn’t care whether his partners had pretty breasts or lean chests.

“You read too many books, brother dear,” Raven had once said in a pitying tone, blaming his undefined sexual preferences on that. “That’s why you keep pursuing those unrealistic things.”

His sister always managed to hit the nail right on the head. That’s exactly why Charles didn’t like how things were developing right now at all.

He was speeding down the empty streets at dawn. It only took him fifty minutes to return to D.C.; the autumn sun hadn’t risen yet when Charles got out of his warm car while shrinking into his coat and jogged back to his apartment.

He was utterly exhausted, but instead of going to his apartment on the seventh floor right away, he pressed down the number six in the elevator. He opened the door and put the key back into the small plate on the table in the entry. He dropped onto the sofa and lay there, facedown and motionless, for about fifteen minutes, inhaling the scent of the sea and the firewood in his damp hair, his heavy-lidded eyes darting to the monitors from time to time.

They showed no one, of course. Charles was probably the only person in the world who knew where he was.

He fumbled beneath his chest, frowning, and pulled out what had been digging into his ribs the entire time − his phone showed three unreceived calls from Moira, all around eleven o’clock, probably for her routine follow-ups. Charles held his phone in his hand and wondered for quite a long time whether he should call her back; he knew that Moira was more than likely still awake at this time, either drinking coffee in front of her office computer or brushing her teeth. But he gave up in the end, threw down his phone and let himself sink a bit more into the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

The next second Charles was jerking awake, trembling to the screeching sound of sliding car wheels. He rested his numb cheek against the cushion for a moment and felt the sunshine falling on his body. He blinked a few times before his hand went for his phone; only then his brain seemed to process that it wasn’t any wheels but his ringtone that he’d heard.

The time on his display told him that he’d been asleep for four hours, but he wasn’t feeling any less tired.

‘Charles, you didn’t answer my calls last night,’ Moira sounded worried. ‘Is everything alright?’

“Sorry, I fell asleep,” Charles’ drowsy voice added some authenticity to his excuse. “Is there anything?”

‘He’s still sleeping?’

“No, he’s−” Charles shot a quick glance at the monitor. Lehnsherr − he wanted him to call him Erik − _Erik_ had returned to the flat at some point and was now making himself a sunny-side-up egg. “He’s awake, he’s making breakfast.”

‘Anything irregular happened last night?’

_He was mentally unstable when he attacked a reporter; he was mentally unstable when he drove to Baltimore and jumped into the sea; well I was probably also mentally unstable as I jumped after him, and in the end we bid farewell with a handshake, as if we were friends._

Charles couldn’t bring himself to say any of this.

“No, everything was fine, at least when I was awake.”

Moira hang up after she gave him a brief acknowledgement. Charles rose up and stared at the monitors, feeling like a mess. There was someone on the screen now − Erik Lehnsherr, to whom Charles was probably the only person in the world who knew where he’d been, was placing his egg onto a plate. He was still wearing the white shirt and khaki pants, reminding Charles that everything truly had happened.

He felt that he was losing control of his life just like the scorching car had lost control in that rainy night, the steering wheel loosening and the brakes silencing as if they were dead, crashing head first into a mountain of lies.

He knew he liked nice things. But he couldn’t know that it might include a pair of dark green eyes that glimmered like a wild animal, lean fingers that added firewood into the fireplace, and beautiful thin lips that always spat out sarcastic and provoking words.

He should have told Moira what had happened. But instead he chose to uphold this lie and even felt joyful at the thought of them sharing a mutual secret of that night.

Raven texted him, only listing the name of a restaurant and a time. Charles stared at his phone for quite a long time before he suddenly remembered that he’d promised to have dinner with her.

He let out a heavy sigh. This only meant even more lies.

By the time the waiter led Raven to their table, Charles had already had his second aperitif. His sister was wearing a deep-red cocktail dress, her blonde hair falling idly over her shoulders. Charles stood up and pulled out her chair, and pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Charles sat down and adjusted his tie. Raven looked at the glass on the table and arched her eyebrows.

“Thanks, and you started without me,” she said, “if you _have_ to drink, at least do it when I'm around.”

Charles sensed that the conversation was heading towards a direction he didn’t like, so he lifted the menu to read it.

“Have you been to the doctor’s lately?” Charles tried to keep his tone casual.

“Has your local pub started to stop selling you alcohol?” Raven shot back. Charles sighed.

“We had a deal, Raven,” he said. “You go to the doctor I’ve recommended you and have a chat with him once a week, and I let you transfer to Washington.”

Raven pouted, trying to make Charles stop his lecture or make him laugh with her puppy eyes, but it didn’t work this time.

“Oh please, Charles, we haven’t even had our starters yet,” Raven grumbled and lifted her hand to call the waiter. “I had a lot on my plate, that’s all. I promise I’ll go tomorrow.”

Charles glared at her for a moment and finally, as always, surrendered under her puppy eyes and the fact that the waiter was nearing their table. He only shot a _this-isn’t-finished_ look at his sister.

“You’re staying quite a long time in D.C. this time,” Raven then said. Charles stiffened.

“It’s a bit tricky this time,” he replied reserved and ordered grilled cod, “I might have to stay for a couple weeks more.”

“You looked really tired, you have to get more sleep, Charles,” Raven reached forward and squeezed his hand on the table, her face gentle. “When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”

Charles smiled, turned his palm around and held her fingers.

“Are you going to talk about my parents and childhood with me now?”

Raven’s mouth also quirked into a smile.

“It’s _our_ parents. And honestly, I’ve got nothing to say,” she pulled a face at Charles. “Such a _loving_ family.”

Charles didn’t smile at that, at least he didn’t think he did. But the way Raven’s expression relaxed had him question whether he instinctively did after all. He felt tired; he loved his sister deeply, that was beyond all question, but sometimes Charles felt tired beneath the love. Their shared memories would devour his thoughts and in a split-second of time make him doubt himself and his sister, while he couldn’t tell what exactly he was doubting. Then he would wake and perk up from that and see that Raven was still her, his sister who had to be cared for, trusted, protected and loved.

“I love you, you know?” Whenever this happened Charles would remind himself of that and plant a kiss on the back of his sister’s hand.

Raven shot him an annoyed but gentle look.

“I love you too, you prat.”

Besides of that, they hadn’t yet shared a single word of truth.

Charles headed back to New York for the weekend.

There were three reasons to that: a) Erik was away for a couple of days in order to give a speech at the graduation ceremony at the USAFA, so there was no need for Charles to stare at empty monitors all day; b) his GTA was near to having a mental breakdown due to his frequent absence; c) and most importantly, he had a mild fight with Moira.

It actually wasn’t a big deal. Charles had anticipated that Moira would find out that Erik had punched a reporter that day; it wasn’t in the press − maybe because they knew it was their fault to trespass and provoke him first. Erik Lehnsherr was America’s new poster boy; nobody actually wanted to paint his name black − except for Moira, that is.

He had no idea where she’d gotten the news, at least Charles was sure it wasn’t from him, because due to security measures, all those videos were kept only in Charles’ computer and nowhere else.

Moira didn’t blame him, since it wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen asleep. She just wondered worriedly about Erik’s whereabouts that night, which unnerved Charles, and he subtly implied his utter lack of interest on this matter.

“Look at him, Moira, it’s been a month,” he said. Erik was sitting on his sofa and staring at the TV. “Up until now, the only thing one can accuse him of is that he keeps watching this dreadful cooking show.”

‘Hank’s told me about your doubts,’ responded Moira flatly. ‘Actually, he didn’t have to tell me. You’ve told me enough times yourself.’

“He seems like he only wants to live his life,” Charles insisted. “He even refuses to take interviews or rejoin the army.”

‘We’ll see, Charles,’ Moira started to lose patience, her voice sounded distant and distracted. ‘He eventually has to contact _someone_ , then you’ll know how he’s gonna use all that glory.’

“When you told me that we needed confirmation, didn’t you already have an answer for yourself?” Charles cut in, preventing her from bidding goodbye and handing up. “If that’s so, I don’t know what kept you from running down his flat with SOF.”

Moira was silent for a too long time. Charles knew he’d gone too far, but he had been condemning himself for losing control and taking irrational actions because of everything that’d happened, and desperately needed an outlet for those constrained emotions. However, before he had the chance to regret anything or to apologize, Moira spoke up.

‘My job has me spend a lot of time trying to prove that I’m right, Charles, just like you’re always trying to prove that other people are wrong,’ her tone sounded weary and lonely, which made regret start to bubble in Charles’ chest. ‘Apparently we are both pretty good at our jobs.’

This time Charles didn’t prevent her from hanging up.

He punished himself by squeezing himself into his tiny lab at Columbia and correcting that mountain of dreadful theses written by his students, during which he swallowed nothing but a cup of cold coffee that burned his stomach like battery fluid. His GTA fished him out from behind his messy office desk before he was about to leave at 6 p.m., took most of the unmarked theses with him, squeezed a Kringle into his hand and switched on the TV for him.

“I forgive you for abandoning me, I really do,” his GTA said in a frightened voice, “just eat something, _please_.”

Charles had to take two bites of his Kringle and feel the sweetness on his tongue before the pain of hunger finally hitting him. He stood up and made himself a cup of strong tea, then sat alone in his lab and watched the evening news.

When Erik Lehnsherr’s name appeared onscreen, Charles found the remote and turned up the volume.

It was a re-run of the graduation ceremony; Erik wore his Air Force Blue uniform as he stood behind the wooden rostrum; the sun was beaming brightly. His lips were moving and his deep voice rolled off them, but Charles wasn’t really listening. He only saw the news about him rejoining the army sliding across the bottom of the screen.

The lab was too quiet and the TV too noisy; Charles wasn’t sure what he should be thinking, so he packed his things, turned off the TV and switched off the lights. He wanted to go back to his apartment here in New York; it was nice there, with a whirlpool that could diminish all his worries. But before he knew what he was doing, he was steering towards the highway and drove three hours back to D.C.

He felt unprecedentedly upset under the illuminated night sky. He didn’t want to admit that Moira might have been right, because, after all, it was no wonder even an extremely normal action would seem suspicious if you foisted all kinds of endeavor and self-interest on it. Erik had been cut off from the world for ten years, while before that, and even during that, he’d always been a soldier except for the time he’d been a student. Now, after he’d found his way back to society again, it was probably just natural to resume his former profession; he had to carry on, had to eat, had to pay and care for himself, after all.

After Charles had gotten back to his flat in D.C., he started to read _A Tale of Two Cities_ while lying on his sofa. This usually calmed him down; but half an hour later he found that he’d only made it past two pages and decided to give up. He shrugged into his jacket; when he was standing in the elevator, he remembered a random quote from somewhere: _When I read about the evils of drinking, I stopped reading_.

He successfully made fun of himself with this sentence, and he smiled.

That deserted bar around the corner was almost empty even on a weekend night. The bartender made eye contact with him and served him his usual again. Charles sat on his customary seat and absently watched the soccer match, waiting for the alcohol to kick in.

His phone rang.

Charles sat on his chair dispiritedly and wondered for a while whether he should take out his phone from his pocket. The last thing he wanted to do right know besides of being sober was hearing Moira’s voice. But his ringtone kept shrieking in the empty bar, so he drank up the whiskey in his glass and gestured for another one before he defeatedly picked up the call. His display showed him that it was anonymous, like always.

“Hello,” Charles said tiredly, “I can guess what you have to say, so let’s just skip that part, alright?”

The other side was silent for a few seconds.

‘Of course,’ then a deep, smiling voice answered. Charles felt a shudder creeping from his ear shell all the way down his spine. ‘If you insist.’

Charles’ thoughts then abandoned him for a stretching moment, trying to find some obvious responses on their journey. His silence made both the ambience and the voice on the other side seem more cautious.

‘I’m Erik Lehnsherr,’ he suggested, as if Charles was able to forget him. ‘You gave me you card and said−’

“I know,” Charles’ thoughts found their way back to him again and he said hurriedly, “I’m glad you called. How are you?”

‘Not bad, I just got back to D.C.’ Erik responded lightly. ‘Actually, I’ve listened to your advice − the part about getting on with the press.’

“Yes, I’ve seen the news. I’m really proud of you.”

Erik chuckled, likely not noticing the sarcasm in it; after all it was directed more towards Charles himself and not him.

‘I suppose I deserve a reward, professor.’

Charles almost blurted out whether he was trying to flirt with him, but he wasn’t at all prepared for an answer, be it a _yes_ or a _no_.

“What can I do for you?” He asked carefully.

‘It sounds like you’re in a bar.’

“I am in a bar.”

‘On your own?’

“On my own.”

‘Do you want some company?’

Charles chuckled while his heart started trembling dangerously. That must be why his blood wasn’t reaching his brain and why he couldn’t think straight.

“Don’t you try asking me out on the phone, my friend.”

Erik chuckled too; Charles could almost see him stretching out comfortably on that sofa in his living room − if he was there right now.

‘I can manage better when we’re face-to-face,’ he said, somewhat amused. ‘Where are you?’

Charles told him the name of the bar and Erik knew where it was − of course he did, it was right between their flats, it took them both less than ten minutes to get there on foot.

While he was waiting for Erik to arrive, Charles texted Alex and Sean and told them that everything was fine tonight, the target wasn’t doing anything and they can go home early. The reply came a couple of seconds later; Charles switched off his phone and rested his chin on his hands. He let out a light sigh containing both worry and nervousness.

Charles had just ordered his third glass when Erik arrived. He was wearing a grey shirt and jeans and followed a bunch of noisy youngsters inside; he was quiet like a ghost, but also shockingly salient.

He smiled when he noticed Charles and was noticed himself, and kept that almost affectionate smile as he strode towards him.

“I’ll take the same,” he told the bartender as he sat down. He turned sideways and stared at Charles curiously, as if it was the first time they’d met and he was getting used to the proximity. “Hello, Charles.”

“Hello,” Charles lifted his glass towards him. The alcohol was a big help, it always had been; he was able to watch Erik’s face turn into an unguarded smile. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Erik looked amused.

“Really?” He asked, “Why?”

“Maybe because your face shows up in the news all day,” Charles answered. Erik was handed his whiskey; he took a small sip and instantly frowned. “I know, they always add too much water.”

“Apparently not enough,” Erik sneered, “it tastes like piss. If you’re going to ask me whether I’ve ever drunk that, the answer is yes.” 

Charles purely started to feel sorry for him. He didn’t know whether it was meant to be a joke, and didn’t think before he acted; he put his hand on Erik’s just the way Raven had done to him. Erik’s hand was warm and his muscles tense, which made Charles shudder awake that instant, awkwardly lifting his palm from the former’s skin, but Erik’s hand flipped like a mousetrap and brutally caught Charles’ fingertips.

“What was this?” Erik said. His voice was even, and he drew out the end of the sentence playfully. “Some kind of suggestion? Or a way to show sympathy?”

Desire and fear hit Charles’ head at the same time. He backed off, and tried half-heartedly to pull out his fingers − of course he didn’t succeed.

“I don’t know.” He hoped that his voice was as even as Erik’s, but under the latter’s intrepid and focused gaze, he wasn’t sure he managed that.

“Come on, professor,” Erik smiled devilishly, the wrinkles around his eyes were deep and beautiful, “it’s just like another dull psychology lecture. You can do it.”

To be honest, Charles didn’t see it coming. It’s not that he didn’t want it; it’s not that he was pretending not to notice the almost painful tension between them ever since their first encounter. Charles was no idiot; he knew it obviously meant _something_. No, he didn’t see it coming because Erik Lehnsherr didn’t seem like someone who’d be interested in Charles, in fact, he didn’t seem to be interested in _anybody_.

Erik let go of his hand; before Charles could mourn the loss, he discovered why he’d done that − a girl from that crowd of noisy young people was tapping Erik’s shoulder. Judging by the speed of him turning his head, Charles had enough reason to believe that if Erik hadn’t been putting both his attention and his hand on him, this girl would probably be lying on the floor by now.

“Hey, you’re that hero,” she murmured and managed a half-drunk smile. She was rather pretty, with deep features and a curvy figure, which was probably why her boyfriend beside her was busy dragging his hand up and down her waist instead of focusing on the conversation.

Erik didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, so he chose to take a sip in silence.

“Hero, my girlfriend’s talking to you.”

The young man in baggy clothes lifted his hand and snapped his fingers in front of Erik’s nose. Now Charles felt that he had to say something.

“Please,” he spoke up gently, “don’t be like this.”

Now both the young man and Erik were looking at him.

“What?” The young man drawled. “We’re just saying hello.”

“My friend simply wants to be left alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”

Charles remained civil; Erik stared at him with an enigmatic visage and buried a blurry smile behind his glass.

“What if I say I _do_ mind?” The young man said and smacked Charles’ glass across the table, and it shattered onto the wooden floor. It went quiet in the bar now, all the other kids looked at them, and the bartender also stopped drying the glasses.

That’s what Charles couldn’t stand about certain young male homo sapiens. If he’d paid even a split-second of his attention to his environment while he was stupidly trying to claim his dominance, he would’ve noticed that his girlfriend looked uncomfortable and didn’t want to be involved in this at all.

He pulled out his wallet, put some notes on the table for the alcohol and shrugged at Erik. When the young man grabbed for Charles collar, he was just sliding down his barstool and had no time to counter − in fact it wasn’t necessary for him to do so, because Erik’s hand reached out and pushed the young man’s away before he punched him in the face.

Charles was frozen in shock as he watched the man go flying onto the floor, dragging a couple of stools with him in the process. His friends all jumped up and rushed towards them, stepping over the obstacles he’d made. Erik was laughing, and while Charles was trying to figure out why, he found himself inevitably laughing as well; it was just like their out-of-control night at the beach.

“You’re crazy!” Charles swore as he laughed. Erik grabbed his hand and dragged him along as he ran out the bar.

They laughed as they ran all the way down the dimly lit street, passing by Charles’ apartment and the room with all the monitoring equipment, be he didn’t slow down; he just let Erik drag him along and ran and ran, until the whiskey was spinning in his stomach and he had to stop to take a breath.

They pushed each other into a narrow alley, Erik held Charles’ upper arm in place as he lifted a finger to his lips and hissed a sound to make him stay quiet; Charles bit back a laugh and went on his tiptoes to look over Erik’s shoulder, recognizing a few shadows down the streetlight and hearing messy chorus of footfalls moving away from them. Charles started laughing again, it was shockingly loud in this silent night, and it took him a few seconds to notice it was because Erik wasn’t laughing. He was simply looking at Charles, his gaze alert and mesmerized, extremely insane and extremely sober. His hand released Charles’ arm and drifted over his chest and his neck.

The same moment when Charles held his breath to even it out, Erik took his lips into his own.

It took them a little time to test each other’s boundaries; but when Charles nibbled on Erik’s bottom lip and he didn’t fight back, things frantically went out of control. Charles was pushed against the wall behind him which sent a dull pain through his skull; Erik’s body pressed against his immediately, trapping him between his arms, leaving him confused, aroused, and unable to think. He didn’t realize his cardigan had been unbuttoned until Erik slid his hand beneath his shirt, the feeling of his cold fingertips against the heat of his body made Charles shudder lightly and pant heavily. He cupped Erik’s nape, and when his fingers brushed against a brutal scar just beneath his collar, Erik stopped all his movements as if he’d just pressed a button. He wasn’t even breathing anymore, his nose was buried deep in the hollow of his neck, and there was no air coming out.

“Hey,” Charles was startled, but he knew that Erik had been startled as well. He tried again gently, “Hey.”

He carefully stroked Erik’s nape with the tip of his fingers, until the skin there relaxed and warmed up again, until his whole body relaxed again, until it melted into Charles’ embrace. Erik nudged into Charles neck and found his breath again and exhaled slowly.

“Sorry,” he said, with an almost embarrassed indignity to his tone.

“It’s alright,” Charles interrupted whatever he was about to say. He stepped back from Erik’s embrace and studied him under the dim lights. He cupped his face and squeezed slightly, as if that would make him smile again.

Erik didn’t smile; he was close, but he didn’t. He kissed Charles again, this time the touch of his lips was brief and tender, and it almost made Charles weep.

Then he walked him home; he didn’t take Charles’ hand but kept very close as they walked. He smiled a surprised smile when he discovered how near they lived, but aside from that he didn’t show any sudden change of emotions.

Charles watched him cross the street and turn around the next block before he went inside.

Ten minutes later, Erik appeared in the monitors; he turned his key and opened his door, stepping into his flat. Charles had been waiting in front of the screen for some time already. Erik stood motionlessly in the doorway for a long time, then he took off his shirt and went to the bathroom. He turned on the showerhead and stepped into the shower without even taking off his pants.

Charles knew that he shouldn’t continue watching the moment Erik unfastened his fly. It wasn’t fair; be it this invasion of privacy, be it what Erik had had to endure in the past, be it what Charles had had to endure in his past, be it the mutual pain they had to feel when they were touching each other; everything just wasn’t fair.

Erik supported himself by putting his hand on the wet tiles. He bent down his scarred back and was clenching his imminent problem in his other hand. He didn’t look pleased at all, his hand moving chaotically and hesitantly while he gulped out sounds that were almost like whimpers. The whole process was too short and too long; Charles didn’t know how much time had passed when Erik’s entire body tensed, his breath hitching as if he’s being shot in the head. It took a long time for his shoulders to finally relax as endless streams of hot water washed over them. He pressed his forehead against the wall and went still.

Charles stayed there with him the entire time, and it also took a long time for him to stop crying.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue was taken from Homeland.

Charles drove to Langley in the morning. Moira’s vicious secretary made him wait outside her office for half an hour before she grudgingly told him that her boss wasn’t there and he could leave her a message.

Charles told Angel that he wanted to quit, and chose to ignore the shock on her face as she picked up the phone. Moira came five minutes later, marching towards him in her high heels and gesturing towards her office; Charles followed her inside.

Their disagreement concerning Erik’s whereabouts hadn’t been solved yet; Charles thought that she would either accuse him of ratting out or press him to stay, but neither of that happened. Moira seemed anxious and focused as always; she asked Charles to sit down as she cleared up the papers on her desk.

“You came just in time, I wanted to call you myself,” she said as she put the loose documents into a folder and smiled briefly. “The car will be here in ten minutes; you’re coming with me.”

“Whereto?” Charles asked, puzzled.

“Can you believe it?” Moira sounded as if Christmas had come early. “We’ve caught a member of Hellfire, _alive_. The SOF brought him to D.C. a few days ago.”

Charles didn’t know how to respond as he processed the news.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Charles? It means we might finally get an answer.”

Wasn’t that exactly what Charles needed right now? An answer?

“It means an interrogation,” he said. Moira squeezed the folder under her arm.

“We don’t use torture in interrogations on American soil,” Moira said, “at least not the physical kind. I doubt I need to make any further explanations on that matter. You’ve got something to tell me?”

“I came to tell you that I want to quit, Moira,” Charles told the truth. “Let’s just say, well, you know that I was never suited for a job at the CIA.”

Moira froze on spot and stared at Charles from behind her desk; the latter wasn’t sure if she wanted him to feel sorry, or any other kind of emotion that might make him change his mind.

“No one is more suited for a job at the CIA than you. There’s probably also no one who can enjoy it as much while still acting like a saint,” Moira said, her tone even.

“That was sarcastic.”

“No, it’s a fact,” she said. Charles couldn’t make out whether she meant it or not. “Honestly, Charles, don’t tell me you woke up this morning and suddenly thought that everything was wrong.”

“Why can’t I think that everything is wrong? Especially when everything indeed _is_ wrong?” Charles retorted stubbornly. “Aren’t we using homeland security as an excuse while we’re crossing the line?”

“You know what’s crossing the line, Charles?” Moira rose her voice. “It’s making direct contact with the goddamn _target_.”

Her words hit Charles bluntly in the face; he almost lost sight of Moira in a flash of white light. He remembered those touches, those kisses and that blazing desire, and felt himself backing off pathetically.

“You’ve been watching me?” He almost felt real anger boiling, it didn’t matter that it might have been out of embarrassment.

“And you lied to me,” Moira countered, “How long did you think you could’ve kept it from me? When there’s GPS positioning on Lehnsherr’s car and loads of eyes following him?”

Charles relaxed for a brief moment. His reason resurfaced from the extreme anger and compunction as he realized that Moira meant that night in Maryland, and nothing that had happened that night could make him feel guilty − at least compared to the night when they’d been in the alleyway.

“He punched the reporter and left his apartment right away, what choice did I have?” Charles steadied his voice and tried, “I’m not a trained agent, Moira, I even forgot to grab my phone, I only took my car keys and went after him.”

Moira was silent for some seconds, her brown eyes tracing Charles like a polygraph. Then her eyes relaxed − it was always like this, just the way Erik had easily trusted him. Charles hated lies, but he had no choice but to reflect if he himself was the perfect liar.

“So do you want to tell me what happened that night?” Moira said in her remaining but not very intimidating anger.

“I don’t know, do you still trust me?”

Just when Moira opened her mouth to say something, a knock on the door interrupted their wrestle. Angel appeared and told them that the car had arrived. Charles’ gaze darted back to the desk after the door had been closed and saw that Moira had already picked up all the folders. She walked past him and stared at him for a couple of long seconds.

“You’re such an idiot, Charles,” she said, and the insult was the nicest thing she’d said to him in days. “Come with me.”

Charles followed Moira onto a jeep with blackened windows. Before he got inside, he saw that several agents boarded another car behind them, all of them carrying guns. Weapons always unsettled Charles. Half a year ago, when he was on his way to a Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from his apartment in New York, he was groundlessly attacked and beaten bloody by a group of teenagers. They didn’t even take his phone or his wallet, only laughed and left when someone tried to intervene. He met up with Raven in D.C. that week, who hastily shoved a paper bag with a loaded gun into him like some mafia drug dealer. They argued about this particular object at their lunch table; Charles couldn’t believe that Raven really applied for a permit for him to carry a gun, while Raven couldn’t believe that Charles still refused to even own a weapon for his self-defense after what had happened.

“Just take it, Charles, for Heaven’s sake,” Raven scolded; her eyes were red from crying, it really wasn’t fair. “You have to take care of yourself.”

Charles swallowed his lecture about how someone tried to defend himself with a gun but didn’t know how to use it, and was shot dead with his own weapon by the criminal. Instead he let the whole bag disappear in the depth of his cupboard.

Thinking of Raven made Charles’ thoughts wander, and he was perfectly silent for the one-hour ride; Moira didn’t try to talk to him either. Their jeep drove along a narrow road in the woods before it halted in front of a small house.

There were a couple of technicians installing their equipment in the otherwise empty room. Moira led Charles towards the long desk with monitors on it. The screen in the middle showed a greyish room with nothing more than a table and a chair. Their prisoner was sitting in the metal chair with his hands and feet chained. Charles leaned forward to take a closer look; the man looked shockingly young and decent, with wavy black hair and almost sprawling in the chair. If one ignored his crinkled shirt and the fresh wound on his face, he looked like an angel investor.

Charles was about to sit down and do whatever Moira was expecting from him when he saw the technicians placing a video camera on a tripod on the floor, focusing straight on him.

“Why are they setting up cameras here?” Charles said, half guarded and half joking. “Am I still being watched?”

“It’s not you who’s being watched,” Moira faced the window; Charles then heard the cracking sound of car wheels biting into gravel. “They’re early.”

Moira shushed Charles into a smaller room, right next to the abandoned kitchen and a garden facing the lake. It had the same setting as the last one, with monitors set up on the desk. At first Charles leaned against the door, trying to figure out who was coming through the thin wood; that turned out to be completely unnecessary, as the figures that entered the monitors immediately cleared his wonders. The camera that had been focused on him was now showing Emma, Moira and Erik Lehnsherr sitting down at the table.

Charles stepped away from the door restlessly, sat down and put on the headphones.

They greeted each other; Erik somehow managed to look tired but sober, broken but intact and was quiet like always. His eyes wandered between Moira and the technicians around him, showing a vague skepsis towards them.

“Thank you for your time, second lieutenant,” Moira said and gestured towards the seat across the monitors.

“I have no idea what’s going on, they’ve only told me that you’ve…” Erik pulled out his chair and glanced at the monitor before he sat down, and froze on spot.

Charles leaned closer; Erik’s expression was caught between fury and callousness.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, his eyes blank, as if he didn’t realize what he’d just said.

“Do you know this man?” Moira asked.

“He’s,” Erik paused, “he was my guard.”

“Do you know his name?” Emma asked.

“They called him Riptide,” Erik replied in a rumble.

Moira took the earpiece a technician handed her and disappeared behind the door.

“His real name is Janos Quested,” said Emma. “You’re here for two reasons today, lieutenant. One, to confirm his identity, which you’ve just done, and two, to provide MacTaggert with information she can use to unsettle him, to prove that we have complete control.”

It took Erik some time to slowly sit down.

“Of course,” he said. He didn’t sound so sure but he’d calmed down. “Of course. What is it you think he knows about?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t share any operational details with you,” Emma looked genuinely sorry. She handed Erik a headset with a microphone. “Are you ready?”

Moira reappeared in the holding cell with a pile of folders. She sat down across Riptide and put a plastic cup of water on the table in front of him.

“Do you speak English?” She asked. The black-haired man stared at one corner of the table and didn’t answer.

“They all spoke some English,” Erik said into the microphone.

“We know you speak English. Therefore, I’ll continue to address you in English.” Moira pulled out some photos from her folder. “This soldier was your prisoner. When did you first meet him?”

Riptide glanced at the photos. His expression remained indifferent, as if everything was going as expected.

“Summer 2003,” said Erik, “in a bungalow east of Kulob. I was held there for more than three months.”

“You met him in Summer 2003, you kept 2d Lt Lehnsherr in a bungalow east of Kulob, is that correct?” Moira said before the man was willing to open his mouth, “What did you do to him?”

The room went silent for at least ten long seconds. Erik’s gaze was fixed on the screen, his hand went to his jacket pocket and fumbled for something in distress.

“What did you do to him, Janos?” Moira repeated the question. Emma touched Erik’s arm briefly.

“If you have details we could use.”

Erik woke up from his trance.

“He electrified me with a car battery and he pissed on me.”

Charles frowned, but ceased doing it soon after and started to feel confused. Erik hadn’t been telling him the truth, but what if he did? What if one day he decided to tell Charles what he’d been through, and didn’t want any pity or sympathy or reassurance or encouragement; what if he didn’t even want someone’s silent company?

What if he was like Charles and didn’t know what he really desired?

“You electrified him and urinated on him,” said Moira. This information showed some impact, for Riptide raised his eyes and stared at the camera, a flash of doubt cracking his façade.

“Do you think your mother is still alive?” Moira’s tone was even; Riptide’s gaze left the camera and rested on her face for the first time.

“Have you seen that?” Emma told Erik. “That’s exactly what we were going for. Now he is convinced that we know the answer to every question we ask.”

“How long have you been M.I.A.? A week?” Moira pressed on, “We all know Azazel is not a patient man. Do you need me to remind you what he had done to the family of a lifted man in Vladivostok two years ago?”

It seemed that Riptide planned on remaining silent forever, but his hands started trembling on his thighs.

“We can protect you family, Janos, but you have to cooperate. As soon as possible.” Moira pushed a notepad towards him and stood up. “Write down all the addresses, names and every useful piece of information you know. If you still care about them.”

Moira walked away and the agent at the corner pulled the door open for her. Charles only saw her dodging something that flashed past before Erik appeared in the cell a second later.

“What the−” Moira was both shocked and enraged. “You shouldn’t− Who let him inside?”

Erik didn’t listen; he walked straight towards the desk and sat down. Moira reached for him but he ducked away easily. Emma came inside as well and held Moira back by her shoulder. Riptide’s expression finally changed; a flash of surprise passed his tense eyes.

Erik sat there and they stared at each other for a long time. Then he pulled out his hands from his jacket and clenched them into fists on the table.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he spoke slowly, a mocking smile on his lips; Riptide didn’t even blink. “But now the tables have turned. You’re on American soil, and I’m a second lieutenant in the Air Force. How did you think this would end?”

Riptide leaned forward, the chair making a painful screeching sound beneath him. Both agents in the room tensed, but their prisoner only pursed his lips, then spat on Erik’s face.

Erik froze for a split-second before he rose up abruptly and smashed Riptide on the floor by the collar of his shirt. Things went out of control from there, both men rolled into a blind spot and continued wrestling, Emma and Moira shouted to stop them, the agents tried to pull them apart. Amidst the whole turmoil, Erik even punched the agent who was dragging him away several times.

“Enough!” Emma cried. Erik pushed everyone aside while panting heavily, his back turned on Riptide, and it took him some time to regain his breath.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said in a stiff voice, “it meant a lot to me.”

Erik left the room first. Moira’s furious gaze flickered between Riptide’s swollen face and Emma, then she lividly stamped out the door, bumping into Emma’s shoulder whilst doing so. After the latter had followed her out and closed the door, they started a heated quarrel.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Moira accused.

“You’ve heard him, it was important to him,” Emma didn’t want to back off, but after that unforeseen tumult, she didn’t sound quite confident. “We have to show the terrorists that they haven’t broken us.”

“We brought him here not for his satisfaction, nor was it for yours or Langley’s or anybody’s!” Moira punched the door. “Now he won’t say anything anymore, maybe we should let Lehnsherr come again with an SLI battery, to see if he can make his enemy talk using that. It’ll certainly be a much better therapy for him.”

“It wasn’t the best decision, I admit it,” Emma grunted. “Can we just leave it there?”

Moira glared at Emma with her arms akimbo, and breathed in heavily.

“Get him the fuck out of here, please,” she said. Emma left without another word.

Just when Charles teared his gaze from the screen and leaned back against his chair, Moira opened the door and walked into his small room. They looked at each other in silence; Charles gestured at the chair next to him, and his friend who was worn out by her own pride slowly took a seat before she rested her head on Charles’ shoulder.

“Am I crazy?” Moira asked in a low voice. “Am I the only person who thinks that everything is off?”

“You’ve simply noticed what we others haven’t,” Charles replied. Moira’s weariness seemed to flow into his veins as well; he was so tired he didn’t want to think about how much truth he put into his words. “You’ve always been like this.”

“It makes me who I am today.”

“That’s right.”

Moira didn’t respond. Together, they gazed at the black and white images on the monitors.

It was 5 p.m. when Moira left; she told him she had a meeting at Langley and would be back in two hours, and left him in that house with a couple of silent agents.

He ate takeaway pizza and drank a cup of coffee while he sat at the table and stared at the monitors. It was a tiring job; Charles’ profession meant that he’d gotten used to living with mountains of documents and information long ago, but in order to refuse Riptide his rest, they’d installed recordings of deafening noises in his tiny cell that went off every five to seven seconds. First Charles couldn’t bear it anymore and took off his headphones, then he muted the video as it still hummed, and in the end − he wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination − he started hearing the tremble of the walls and every time Riptide jerked awake seconds after his heavy eyelids had fallen close, he also felt the latter’s exhaustion and frustration.

Charles didn’t know who he should blame for this. Maybe Moira who’d promised not to use torture (not the physical kind, well she wasn’t lying about that) on American soil. Maybe Erik who’d burst into the cell and thus forced them to gain information in the hard way. Maybe himself, who’d gotten into this mess because of his bloody pointless curiosity.

It was 6:30 p.m. when Riptide moved. That was a big improvement, given that he had been sitting on his chair like a statue for the entire time. He put his cuffed hands on the desk; Charles hopefully thought that he was going to take the notepad and pencil, but he didn’t. He simply reached for the plastic cup that had fallen over during the fight and slurped down the remaining drops of water. Charles stood up hesitantly as he watched this, went to the kitchen and filled another cup before he walked towards the door of the cell.

“Can we−” he gestured helplessly at the cup to the agent at the door. “Can we at least offer him a cup of water?”

It was the poor guy who’d gotten himself a black eye for interfering during the fight. He silently stared at Charles for a moment, then he shrugged and opened the door for him.

“You’ve got the highest clearance after MacTaggert,” the agent said, “so, if you insist.”

Charles wanted to tell him that his clearance was worthless; it only granted him access to some classified files and definitely not the right to give any real orders. But instead he only thanked him briefly before he stepped into the room.

It was even smaller than it looked onscreen; Charles was only two steps away from Riptide’s seat after he stepped through the door. The latter raised his head as he heard the door opening and stared at him with wary red eyes. Charles suddenly remembered that this was the man who’d tortured Erik for years, even if he looked pained and pathetic right now, he had hurt with those hands not just anybody, but _Erik_. Charles wasn’t given the time to regret his action before the shrill noise interrupted their fixated eye-contact.

“Bloody hell,” Charles cursed, put down the cup and prepared to leave. From the corner of his eye he saw Riptide smile and take up his hands from beneath the table. In that moment Charles sensed that something was wrong, but before he could’ve figured out why he had that feeling, the noise thundered in his ears again. Riptide didn’t reach for the cup, he reached for his own neck.

Charles’ ears rang as blood gushed out in front of his eyes, spouting from the impossibly deep cut on Riptide’s throat all the way onto him. He watched the man fall from his chair, a razor blade that was no bigger than a fingernail slipping out of his hand as it hit the floor.

Everything seemed deadly still in the noise, Charles wasn’t sure whether he screamed, the agents pushed him aside as they shouted and sprinted towards Riptide. The blood spurted from the arteria and painted the floor and the table red; the cup of water Charles brought inside also turned into a pinkish color. _That isn’t a living thing anymore_ , Charles thought as he stood at the door, unable to move. _No human being should be able to lose so much blood. No human being should be able to calmly rip open their own throat. No human bring should be able to hurt himself and others like this._

It was forty minutes later when Moira had found Charles on the floor of the cell. He was simply leaning against the wall and sitting there. He was there when everyone was busy trying to revive Riptide who obviously wasn’t alive anymore. He was also there when they gave up and carried his corpse out. _It’s a miracle that Moira arrived this quickly_ , Charles thought, _it should’ve taken at least an hour to get here_.

“Charles, hey,” Moira squatted in front of him and was going to say something, but whatever that something was, it died in her throat the moment she saw the bloodstains on Charles’ clothes.

“I’m sorry,” said Charles. He didn’t feel any anxiety, or fear. Actually he didn’t feel anything; but his reason told him that it was like a bruise on your leg that you hadn’t discovered yet. You’d discover it sooner or later. And then the pain would find you.

Moira looked at him, her eyes full of sadness and extreme disappointment. The former was meant for Charles, the latter was for the whole case. She didn’t simply lose a source of intelligence. She’d lost the chance to uncover the truth.

“I’ll have someone take you back, okay?” Moira took her hand and pulled him up from the floor.

“I should have seen that he was hiding a blade,” Charles whispered, “I should have seen it.”

Moira bit her lip.

“It’s not always hidden, Charles,” she replied. Charles realized that it was that something she didn’t say before. “Anyone who had contact with Riptide could’ve given it to him.”

“You mean lieutenant Lehnsherr handed him the blade,” Charles pointed out.

“No, I meant anyone,” Moira corrected him. “Anyone including Lehnsherr, including me, including you.”

The first thing Charles felt was shame, and then it was shock. He felt shame because while he always accused Moira of being biased, he somehow redirected his own bias against her, and forgot that she still was the woman who, since their first encounter, had always been rational and fair and no more a fool than anybody else he knew. His shock, on the other hand, was mixed up with shame and came from a much deeper layer of emotion; it came from the fact that when he’d been sitting on the floor and thinking, it never even occurred to him to suspect Erik. It came from the fact that even now he still didn’t want to suspect Erik.

_What kind of man has he become?_

“I’ll arrange a polygraph,” Moira’s hand rested on his shoulder as she walked him out of the cell. “Just for the protocol. But that’s gonna be tomorrow anyway. You should go home, clean up and get some rest.”

Charles didn’t fight back. He obediently got inside the car she arranged for him and went back to his apartment in D.C.

He stripped off his clothes, showered for an hour, put the bloodstained and the not bloodstained clothes into a plastic back and threw it into the garbage can downstairs. Charles stood there, wrapped in his bathrobe, and stared at the stairs for a long time.

In the end he went to his bed and not to the sofa across the monitors. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to know what Erik was doing tonight. It was only that he’d discovered how much he craved his company, even if it was in form of black and white pixels on a screen. And the thought terrified him.

The polygraph was scheduled on the following morning.

Moira texted him. Charles was in the bar around the corner at that time, washing down the anxiety and fear that had eventually caught up to him with alcohol. It was five in the morning, and the loaded party people were just beginning to stumble out. Charles stared at his shimmering display and sighed before he asked for a coffee to sober up. The bartender shot him a skeptical look before he made something with a bag of powder that resembled coffee in its color and nothing more. He held his breath and drained it.

Even if his mind felt clearer, Charles still didn’t want to drive to a government agency looking drunk, so he bought a second cup of coffee across the street and called a cab. Langley hadn’t woken up yet, the buildings were silent and Moira’s reception desk empty, so Charles simply knocked before he opened the doors to her office.

Moira was reading a pile of documents on the sofa. She looked surprised to see him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you this early,” she said and watched as Charles sat down beside her, her eyes flickering from his messy hair to his open collar. “Guess I don’t have to ask how you’ve slept. Do you know you smell just like Irish Coffee?”

“I’m glad you’ve still got your humor, my friend, not that there’s much to it in the first place,” Charles answered wearily.

“Seriously, Charles, you shouldn’t have drunk that stuff,” Moira put down the papers and turned to face him. “You know it might affect the polygraph.”

“It’s ridiculous, don’t you think?” Charles rested his chin on his hands. “I mean, first of all I’m not drunk, second of all, if you take a look at the videos, you’d clearly see that I didn’t even touch that desk, let alone Riptide.”

“I know, I’ve seen them,” Moira replied, “I’ve also told you that this is just protocol.”

“Protocols are ridiculous.”

“Aren’t they,” Moira said absently. She stood up and pulled on Charles’ arm. “Come on, we can start earlier, now that you’re here.”

The polygraph was held in a small, square room with nothing more than a table and two chairs. It inevitably made Charles recall that cell, resistance building up in him. Though to his surprise, Hank was in charge for both the equipment and the polygraph.

“Professor,” Hank stood up and shook his hand.

“Hank,” Charles nodded politely. He shot a skeptical glance at the monitors and computer on the desk. “I didn’t know you did this as well.”

“It’s computer-related work anyway, though it’s Moira who asked me to come,” Hank held up a few wires good-naturedly as he waited for Charles to come around the table. “She insisted that you needed someone familiar.”

Charles looked at the one-way mirror on the wall and shrugged. Hank put the devices around his chest and wrist and asked him to sit down.

“I’m going to ask you some questions now. You simply have to answer with yes or no,” Hank told him from behind the laptop. “Are you ready?”

“Let’s find out,” Charles rested his forehead on his hand and answered.

“Is your name Charles Xavier?”

“Yes.”

“Do you work at Columbia University?”

“Yes.”

“You are unmarried?”

“Yes.”

“The first time you worked for the CIA was in Iraq?”

“For God’s sake,” Charles murmured tiredly; his back was covered in a thin layer of sweat, as if the sandy heat of the Middle East had just breezed along.

They’d found the blade beneath Hasan’s heel. An agent whose name Charles couldn’t remember anymore had taken out a knife from his pocket without a second of hesitation, pressed Hasan on the desk and cut open his foot. Blood hadn’t flown like he’d imagined; the tiny blade had looked sharp and blinding in black and white, while onscreen their prisoner had screamed in silence, only because Moira had taken off Charles’ headphones beforehand.

“Calm down, professor,” Hank said slowly and gestured at the devices on him, “take a deep breath and think of something pleasant.”

Charles doubted that would work, but he inhaled the slightly cold air nonetheless. He tried to think of Raven, when she’d been eight years old − Charles had been eighteen already, their huge age gap forming a close bond between them. He thought about one summer’s day that year, his little sister had cried the whole way from school back to the mansion, burying her face into Charles’ shirt, unwilling to let go the entire evening, only because some naughty girl at her school had painted her face blue. Charles had wanted to laugh but he couldn’t have, and he’d stolen glances of her tear-stained blue face beneath her faint blonde hair. He’d held his sister, curled up in the sofa, and had read every book his hands could’ve reached, until she’d finally fallen asleep.

“I’m going to repeat the last question,” said Hank. “The first time you worked for the CIA was in Iraq?”

“Yes,” Charles sighed.

“Just like that, that’s a lot better,” Hank encouraged him. “Are you planning on telling the truth about Janos Quested and the blade today?”

“Yes.”

“Have you handed Janos Quested a blade?”

“And watch him slice open his throat in front of my eyes?”

Hank frowned and shot a quick glance at Charles before he looked at the laptop perplexedly again.

“Please, just answer yes or no.”

“No,” Charles turned away his gaze and leaned back against the chair.

“Have you ever violated a traffic regulation?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever broken a federal law?”

Charles felt like he’d been hit on the back of his head, his memories cracking open in a sudden, and the sound of pouring rain thundered in his ears; then the still functioning part of his brain quickly pulled him awake.

“No.” He felt his heart drumming. His mouth was dry. “No.”

Obviously the result wasn’t satisfying; Hank lifted his eyes from the computer again.

“Charles, you have to relax, or none of us is leaving today,” Hank reminded him patiently.

 _But you don’t understand_ , Charles thought, _you all don’t understand_.

He stood up and started to unwind the wires.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t−” He faced Hank’s surprised face and said in a whisper. “I don’t feel so well.”

Charles last word already sounded like he was throwing up; Hank jumped up and tried to find something that might help him. Moira came inside and unwaveringly walked him to the nearest bathroom. Charles threw up in a plant pot on their way there, and several times more in the toilet after he’d gotten inside. There was downpour on his forehead, spurting crimson beneath his closed lids, terrible whiskey under his nose and the longstanding unreal croak of the brakes echoing in his ears.

Charles whole body jolted as he kept vomiting, until there was no alcohol and coffee left in his empty stomach, and his mouth tasted like nothing but acid.

Twenty minutes had passed when Charles could finally stand straight and make sure that his stomach wasn’t sporting a new wave of nausea. He opened the door and noticed that Moira no longer was outside the men’s bathroom; there were some officers walking down the hallway.

Charles returned to the polygraph room and looked for Moira in the small chamber behind the mirror, but she wasn’t there. There was barely room for more than four people inside; the bright light of the polygraph room fell inside, onto a microphone that was connected to Hank’s headphones and a couple of monitors on the table that was meant to show the cardiograph of the test subject. Right now there was stable straight line on the screen, and Hank was nowhere to be seen either. Just when Charles was about to leave confusedly, the door to the other room was opened. The sound reached him through the loudspeaker, he turned his head and saw Moira leading Erik inside.

Charles drew back his hand that was reaching for the doorknob.

Moira applied the wires on Erik just like Hank did to Charles, and explained the concept of the polygraph. Then she gestured for him to sit down on the same chair Charles’ had sat on before, while she herself put on the headphones and sat down behind the computer. She was apparently planning on doing the test herself. Erik looked weary, his fingers gently drumming the desk in a regular rhythm.

‘Congratulations for rejoining the army, second lieutenant,” Moira didn’t start right away. Instead she leant back and swiveled her chair lightly and watched Erik with a half-smile. “What’re you planning on doing next?’

‘Thank you,’ Erik replied in an even tone, without showing any goodwill, ‘Miss MacTaggert, if I remembered correctly. I’m afraid this isn’t a question I can answer with yes or no.’

‘Because it’s not a question for the polygraph,’ Moira said. ‘You seem to be discontent.’

‘I seem to have become your target,’ Erik’s voice was low, his eyes were flashing. ‘I don’t owe the CIA anything.’

‘I understand that you feel bothered,’ Moira avoided the actual question and said, ‘but this is only for protocol, lieutenant. Janos Quested is dead.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Erik pulled up the corner of his mouth, ‘I can’t pretend to feel sorry for that.’

Moira stared at him for a while and let go of the matter. She turned her chair to face the monitors.

‘Is your name Erik Lehnsherr?’ She asked. Erik stopped drumming the table; he lifted that hand and rested his chin on it.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you a second lieutenant in the Air Force?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you plan on telling the truth here today?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have sold state secrets to another country, is that correct?’

‘No.’

‘Have you ever killed someone?’

Erik paused shortly at that question. His expression didn’t shift, but his gaze went distant from the memory.

‘Yes.’

‘Have you given Janos Quested a blade?’

Moira looked Erik straight into the eyes; the latter seemed to find this rather funny and showed an overly flippant smile.

‘No.’

Charles watched the monitors on his desk; Erik’s cardiograph didn’t change in the slightest. Moira must have noticed as well; she pursed her lips into a stiff line.

‘Is New York City the capital of the United States?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know Janos Quested?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve met him in Kulob, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve secretly handed him a razor blade yesterday, correct?’

‘No.’

Even when they’d circled back to the same question, the result was the same. Erik’s pulse and blood pressure were stable, meaning that he hadn’t told any lies. There was tension and defeat written on Moira’s face. Charles should have felt relieved, because as far as he knew, even if this kind of test wasn’t one hundred percent precise, people who could intentionally manipulate the result only existed in movies. He’d seen some of the best agents here making a bet and challenging the polygraph, and each one of them had failed.

But Charles couldn’t overlook the way Erik was behaving.

He had both hands on the desk, his shoulder relaxedly leaning back against the chair. He looked so confident, so well-prepared; Charles had never seen him like this, never. Not when he’d punched the young man at that bar, nor when he’d unhesitatingly kissed him afterwards − he always looked startled by his own actions, the only difference was whether he showed it or not.

Charles thought about his unfairness, the bias, the untold desire and longing, the shame.

He switched on the microphone.

“Ask him,” Charles’ voice was dry but certain, “ask him if he’s kissed anybody recently.”

Moira’s palm pressed against her ear. Then she glanced at the mirror, disbelief written all across her face.

“Ask him,” Charles repeated. Moira shot a hurried glance at his direction again before she turned towards the computer again.

‘Have you recently kissed anybody?’

Erik’s expression didn’t falter, but his eyes flickered fast and extremely subtly to the mirror. His gaze was so utterly naked that Charles’ heard thundered in his chest, and he was so close to hiding himself behind the walls, even if he knew that Erik couldn’t see him.

‘No.’

The cardiogram was steadier than ever.

Before Charles could have processed that, the door to his room was opened. He saw Emma first, of course, her snow-white outfit had always been eye-catching; then he saw a not unknown but definitely unfamiliar face − Charles had never come in close contact with this man: Sebastian Shaw, director of the CIA. He was wearing a grey suit, had some silver streaks in his brown hair, and although he was smiling, he seemed somewhat apathetic. They both seemed to be surprised that Charles was there, but Shaw held out his hand seconds later.

“Professor Xavier,” he said, his voice rich but his palm icy cold, “what a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t the chance to express my gratitude for your help in person.”

“It is an honor,” Charles responded perturbed. Shaw turned to look at the one-way mirror; Moira was packing her things to leave the room while Erik was already holding the door open for her.

“Ah, I believe we’ve missed lieutenant Lehnsherr’s polygraph test,” Shaw said regretfully. “What are the results?”

Moira stepped into the room and was shocked by their high-ranking guests. She went past Emma to get into the middle.

“He passed the polygraph,” Moira said as she shot Charles a questioning look.

“Just like I’ve expected and hoped,” Shaw said. “I think we can get rid of the surveillance now, Moira.”

He had caught both Moira and Charles by surprise.

“But sir−” Moira opposed, but Shaw only shook his head.

“I’ve given you time and apparently you got me nothing. I can’t continue to waste any precious staff on mere suspicions that lack evidence,” he said. “Call Sean and Alex back to Langley today, and find a time when Lehnsherr’s not at home to deinstall all the surveillance.”

Moira was silent for some seconds before she gave in somberly. Charles could understand her feelings, especially when he knew better than anybody that the polygraph result couldn’t be trusted. But he didn’t know what to say; he didn’t even know what to think, thoughts and unformed sentences billowing in his tired mind; whenever Charles was about to sort them out, exhaustion and anxiety would once again blow them apart.

Then someone’s ringtone suddenly filled the tiny space; just when Charles wanted to shoot a questioning look at someone, he noticed that everyone was looking at him, and realized belatedly that it was his own phone.

Charles apologized, then picked up the call.

“Hello?”

‘Am I interrupting something?’

Charles lifted his eyes in a haste and discovered that Moira was talking to Shaw and Emma; nobody was paying attention to him.

“No, of course not,” Charles said. “It’s just the signal’s poor here, wait a second.”

He squeezed past the three of them and stepped into the hallway.

‘I had a terrible morning,’ Erik started again after he could make out that Charles’ surroundings had fallen quiet.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles said lowly, avoiding eye-contact with the people passing by. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s even worse that I’m going to have a terrible afternoon as well, I’ve got a meeting in the army,” Erik hummed a laugh. There were car horns and whistles on his side; apparently he was driving. “I hope you don’t have any reservations for the evening, professor.”

“I suppose I can pencil you in,” Charles smiled a heartfelt smile before he had the chance to regret it.

‘I’ll tell you the location later,’ Erik replied cheerfully the same moment Charles felt a pat on his shoulder. He turned his head hastily and saw Moira.

“Call me back,” he said and ended the call. Moira didn’t look suspicious, thought, instead she watched him with sorrowful eyes.

“Are you alright?” She asked. “Sorry, Lehnsherr suddenly showed up so I asked Hank to fetch you some aspirin or something, but he’s been a lifetime.”

“I’m fine. You were right. About the stuff I shouldn’t have drunk,” Charles smiled briefly.

“What was that question earlier about?” Of course Moira was asking him now.

“You know I’ve got no idea how polygraphs work,” Charles said. “I just thought, maybe something unexpected would, you know.”

Moira shook her head.

“I’ve dismissed Alex and Sean already, they’re on their way back,” she said and focused her eyes on him. “You know that I trust you, but I hope you will stop keeping things from me, Charles, even if those things seem insignificant. And I’m saying this as a friend, not as an agent.”

Charles blinked slowly, then Moira retrieved her gaze and hesitantly patted his shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the front door.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue was taken from Homeland.

It was already 9:30 p.m. by the time Charles had arrived at the Lincoln Memorial.

Before that he’d had enough time to go home and change, wash out the acid in his throat, answer a few mails from the university, and take a short nap on the armchair near the window, still holding his laptop. He knew that his sleep wouldn’t be sound, thus didn’t want to waste his time lying down. The piercing sunrays made his eyelids twitch the entire time.

Erik had lied about at least one thing during the polygraph, and the machine hadn’t recognized it as a lie.

Rationally thinking, there were two possibilities why Erik had fooled the polygraph: a) he’d taken drugs that stabled his heartrate and blood pressure, b) he’d received training for this kind of test, while the worst part of b) was that he might have learned it in his captivity. Both possibilities however led to the same answer: Erik had been turned.

But why? What for? What was he planning?

Charles’ ringtone woke him from his slumber; he stretched out his sore muscles on the armchair and raised his phone from the coffee table. It showed a text message from Erik Lehnsherr, containing nothing more than the time and place of their rendezvous.

It forced Charles to think emotionally instead. There were thousands of reasons for Erik to lie − in fact he had no reason at all to answer Charles’ question truthfully. Given that the CIA was already messing up his life, it wouldn’t be surprising if he wanted to ensure his privacy; or maybe he didn’t think their relationship was worth talking about. Charles didn’t even know if he felt upset or anything. He was thirty-five years old already, his life was about his sister Raven and his job; then he suddenly realized that he was no less solitary than Erik − he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d maintained a long-term relationship with someone.

Charles didn’t know what to do; he didn’t know from whom and from where he could obtain an answer. So he stopped worrying, assessed his need for alcohol for five seconds, then spent the next five seconds forcing himself to remember the nausea what would follow and eventually suppressed that need. He put down his phone and shut his eyes.

It wasn’t an easy task to search for Erik on the huge plaza in front of the Memorial; Charles had to pass through the tourist groups − thank God there were less people since it was a workday and it was getting late − and look around in the dark. He didn’t want to call Erik; he didn’t know why, but he thought that he could find him − Charles hoped that he could find him, and clear up the mess in his head.

And he managed to do just that.

Erik was standing at the pillar of Florida, wearing the same black suit he wore earlier today, adding a grey wool coat due to the chilly temperatures at night. He looked immaculate and profound like one of those politicians that walked this city. He leaned back to let a couple of chatting Asian tourists pass through, his eyes passing over the Reflecting Pool and resting on the luminous Capitol in the distance. Charles stood in his blind spot and stared at him; he watched him taking out his hand out of his pocket and carelessly glancing at his wristwatch, then putting his hand back in his pocket, shifting on his feet again and continuing to wait. Charles was late, but Erik didn’t seem the slightest bit impatient, which made him anxious and joyful at once.

The moment Charles stepped into the corner of Erik’s vision, the latter spotted him, turned towards him and smiled, the lines of his shoulders relaxing welcomingly.

“Terrible traffic?” He mused. Charles smiled, too.

“Terrible excuse,” he replied and, without any hesitation, followed Erik’s motion to walk towards a dark corner. “Why the Lincoln Memorial?”

Erik walked abreast of him, his hand a ghostly touch on Charles’ elbow, warmly guiding him away from the crowds.

“My father used to take me here,” Erik’s answer was short but straightforward. “I have to say that a lot of my childhood memories are about D.C.”

“I thought you were born in Germany−” Charles bit his tongue the moment the words left his lips. Erik was watching him with curious but examining eyes. “That’s what the news says, anyway.”

Erik believed him immediately. It made an immense wave of guilt wash over Charles; Erik turned away his gaze and let out a brief chuckle.

“I was born in Heidelberg, yes,” Erik said in a light tone, “it’s a city you’d forever reminisce about.”

“I’ve never been to Germany.”

“You’d like it there,” Erik declared and smiled again, as if it was natural for him to do so, as if he wasn’t the man who looked stern of every single monitor screen. “I can almost imagine you walking through the campus, sitting down on a stone bench covered with moss to read Goethe or Hegel, until a girl who’s beautiful enough to catch your eyes distracts you.”

Charles chuckled, pleasantly surprised by Erik’s sharp and witty imagination, and simply fascinated by the heavy-accented mockery that subtly fell on Hegel and Goethe’s names.

“Who knows, maybe it’s a beautiful man in a grey coat,” Charles teased. Erik’s hand on his elbow curled around his arm; Charles almost immediately understood his intention and more than happily let himself be pulled into an embrace.

Charles hadn’t the time to care if there were other people passing by. They stood hidden in the shadows of the pillars, the only light he saw were in Erik’s smiling eyes, his expression was full of adoration, admiration and abounding trust, and it made Charles feel an aching pain lump in his chest.

“Given the awkward environment of our last encounter,” Erik said in a gentle tone that sounded everything but awkward, “I was surprised you picked up my call, professor.”

“Do you want to−” Charles tried to hold on to his last bit of rational thinking in this proximity. “Do you want to talk about your terrible morning?”

“You sound like a psychiatrist,” Erik pointed out.

“I do re−”

“You do research, you don’t treat people, I know,” Erik teased, then the sarcasm vanished from his lips, leaving only an unadulterated smile, “but you undeniably are treating me.”

He caressed Charles’ face; his palm was warm but his fingertips icy cold.

“Two minutes with you,” he whispered, “and I feel marvelous.”

And Charles kissed him.

Simply because if he didn’t do that, maybe Erik would have cried, maybe he himself would have cried, or maybe they would’ve both died from the lack of such a kiss; simply because he wanted to, and seemingly Erik would never ever stop him from doing that.

Erik’s back fell against the pillar, sending a soft vibration through his chest; now he was able to hug every inch of Charles’ body even closer to his. His lips formed the lovely shape of a smile, his scent was like the warm sunshine of May − Erik was so clean, so perfect; he was deceiving every other human being on this earth, but he was honest to the point that he was exposing almost everything to Charles.

Erik let go of Charles’ lips, but he didn’t loosen his arms around his waist. His lips brushed over Charles’ nose and eyes and eventually landed on his forehead; his lips rested there for a long time before the next sentence slipped out his throat.

“Tell me, Charles,” he whispered, “what is the most horrible thing you’ve ever seen?”

Charles wanted to ask him, _why do you want to know?_ But all he did was close his eyes, white zigzags like some kind of static noise fuzzing behind his lids. He heard the downpour, felt warm liquid splashing against his clothes; but Erik was here, and his presence was strong enough to overwhelm anything, including Charles’ own guard and rationality.

“My stepfather,” Charles said, choosing his wording carefully, “Kurt, he− he spent most of his life drowning himself in alcohol, maybe that was what he had in common with my mother. That year − a couple of years ago − it rained a whole lot in London, he was driving home from the pub, he was too drunk, the car slipped on the road and didn’t come to a halt until it crashed into a tree.”

Erik’s face was blank and he didn’t show any reaction. He simply looked at Charles in silence.

“I was at university in the States at the time and was home for the hols, the police asked us to identify the body, my mother was too drunk and my sister too scared, so it was only me who went to the scene of the accident,” Charles opened his mouth perplexed, he wanted to smile but he wasn’t sure if he should be doing that, “but I couldn’t make out it was Kurt at all, the engines caught fire and his whole body was charred, all they managed to find was his ID in the car and his wedding ring.”

Erik kept quiet for several long moments; the only sounds around them were the distant hissing of the fountain and the scattered footfalls of the pedestrians.

“Did he beat you?” Erik opened his mouth, but sounded extremely silent.

“Yes,” Charles admitted, and was surprised by how easy it was. “Yes, until I was old enough to fight back.”

Erik didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t show any panicky reaction either. Charles thought this might be one of the perks of talking about your nasty past with a man who had once been tortured; he might always understand, and give you the feeling that it’s not that bad after all.

“You know what, you teach psychology at the university,” Erik said, he lifted his hands from Charles’ waist and let them rest on his nap instead, “you drink terrible whiskey, wear stupid cardigans and loafers, you jump into the 40 degrees seawater to save a poor man who only wanted to go for a swim, you talk in your pretentious British accent, you probably know every single one of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

Just when he was close to making Charles laugh, Erik said, “Still you are one of the best human beings I’ve ever met, Charles.”

But he really wasn’t. He was cowardly and weak, he ran away from the reality that he was too scared to face and by doing so, he hurt the people around him; he was partial and egoistic, he wanted to trust Erik so badly, but still concealed the truth out of suspicion; he’d committed those unspeakable crimes, and his past was on his heels, so close that Charles could almost feel it exhale against his ear.

Charles wasn’t able to let out any sound, but he apparently showed some kind of expression that made Erik lean down and kiss his cheek, and in the dim light Charles saw moisture on those thin lips, then tasted salt and bitterness on his own.

He imagined himself walking down the Philosophenweg in Heidelberg, imagined those beautiful tree-lined serpentine paths; he imagined himself holding a boring tome that he forced himself to read, imagined finding an dilapidated stone bench covered in moss and sitting down; he imagined Erik coming towards him from the end of the road, imagined his pace being casual but his goal being clear. He would tell him, _your lips form the lovely shape of a smile, your scent is like the warm sunshine of May; you are so clean, so perfect; you are deceiving every other human being on this earth, but you are honest to the point that you are exposing almost everything to me._

_And I love you so much._

Charles’ first love was at seventeen.

He’d been at an expensive and ancient boarding school at the time. Most members of his family had been alumni of that school, but Charles assumed it was because their parents had been − just like his stepfather and mother − more interested in themselves than in their children. Not that Charles was complaining − he’d dived into mountains complicated schoolwork and spent his downtime with other sons of wealthy and powerful families who let the feeling of superiority casually drip from every word they said. They would've loosened their striped uniform ties, sat down in the sunny courtyard and made fun of classic literature, insulted each other in tongue-twisting French, and secretly passed along cigarettes beneath the stone benches whenever the teachers hadn’t been paying attention.

The boy’s name had been Mike, Charles remembered it clearly. He’d had fair blonde hair and deep features, had been taller than every single one of them, liked to smile whenever they'd been messing around, but hadn't talked much. Charles’ love for psychology had started then − he’d wanted to find out Mike’s thoughts whenever he’d smiled, wanted to break into that pretty head of his to read those thoughts; he’d always shot too many glances at Charles, his hot gaze sliding along his slender neck into his collar.

The first time Charles kissed him had been in the dormitory. After the lights had gone out, Mike had sneaked into Charles’ room with a cigarette in his hand; at first they’d sat on the bedside and talked about how tomorrow was going to be another boring day, whilst smoking the same cigarette in turns. Then one of them must had fallen silent first, the air had become sticky and intimate, Mike had leaned forward, he hadn’t shown that much doubt or hesitation, for they’d been beating around the bush for too long already; their lips had touched and it had felt so very simple, then they’d adjusted the angle to deepen the kiss, just like they’d seen in all those old films; they’d hastily started to touch other parts of their bodies, so impatient that their breathing and heartrate became dangerously fast.

Charles vaguely remembered all those green stories of his youth, how they’d clumsily bumped into each other’s teeth and noses, how they’d tickled each other whilst trying to touch; they’d been awkward, agitated and amused, and tried so hard to please each other, their worlds narrowing down to one single person. He never thought that he’d get the chance to experience those feelings again, given that he was more than twice as old as he’d been then − but Erik managed to achieve just that.

They pulled on each other’s clothes and arms, stepping onto the lawn next to the memorial on their way to the parking lot, exchanging countless kisses and broken hugs in between. Charles was smiling like a teenager on his first date, he felt utterly stupid and embarrassed, but couldn’t stop doing it under Erik’s affectionate and loving gaze. They reached that conspicuous black jeep first; Erik pressed him against the door and kissed him, his lips then burning all the way down to his collarbone. Charles huffed out another laugh and felt that Erik was fumbling for the keys in his coat pocket.

“Please, may God have mercy on my poor back,” he said, and shivered as Erik tried to bite open his buttons. “Not in the car, I’m too old for that.”

Erik laughed into his neck, and miraculously managed to find his keys to open the door.

“If you still have time to think about your back, then I’m afraid I’m not doing good enough,” his palms traced down Charles’ waist, his voice a soft rumble floating into the intimate dimness. Charles was mentally struggling between talking back or letting out a moan when Erik gently pushed him onto the passenger seat.

Charles completely abandoned his old Honda and went on a ride in Erik’s jeep. They didn’t talk much during the journey; in the radio, Kenny G was playing a smooth melody on his saxophone. Erik turned down the volume, his eyes flickering over to Charles every single time they stopped at a red light, making sure that he was still sitting there and flushing the same color as the traffic light before turning his head to face the windscreen again, a slight smile playing on his lips. He made Charles think of Mike; although they looked nothing alike, he’d also spent such long moments gazing at Charles, the same as Charles spent gazing at him; it made Charles impatient, made him flustered, made him willing to do anything and utter every stupid word, only to see that mysterious smile again.

Erik steeled around another block and drove straight into the underground parking lot of his apartment building. He parked, opened the door, waited for Charles who’d pushed open the door the same time to come to him, grabbed his hand and strode towards the elevator. Even if Charles’ heartbeat was so fast he could hardly think or walk straight, even if Erik pinned him to the wall and kissed him the moment they closed the door, even sliding his hand beneath Charles’ thighs, lifting him up so he could sit comfortably on the dresser in the doorway, even if Erik’s body pressed hotly and heavily against his, making him feel dizzy − Charles still had to resist the urge; he huffed out a laugh, pushing on Erik’s shoulders.

“Wait, I have to go to the bathroom−” Charles gasped, pressing down Erik’s hand that was about to unfasten his belt.

“You smell nice,” Erik promptly refused.

“You do too, thank you, I’m not going to take a shower, though− Oh God,” Charles moaned, it took him all his willpower to ignore Erik’s fingers that were brushing over his lower abdomen. “You have to let me use the loo, Erik, otherwise I can’t promise you what’s going to come out first.”

Erik laughed again; he lifted his hands in defeat and looked at Charles amused.

“Go on then, you’re such a buzzkill,” he said in a gleeful tone.

Charles slid down the dresser and squeezed past Erik who tried to tangle him into another hug. He walked down the dark rooms towards the bathroom; just when the lightbulb blinked above his head, Erik called out to him.

“Wait a second, Charles,” Erik said and looked at him with amused doubt on his face, “turn right, the bathroom is next to the bedroom, I haven’t told you yet.”

Charles’ heart skipped a beat; after days and nights of surveillance, he knew every inch of Erik’s flat − he even managed to precisely dodge the stool that was in his way in the complete darkness. He forced himself to maintain an impatient but loose smile as he looked around the now lit-up room.

“Minimalistic, aren’t we?” He teased, gesturing at the empty room; Erik shrugged and smiled. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything, so Charles pointed at the bathroom, signaling that he was heading there.

The moment the door clicked shut, he quietly stepped onto the bathtub and then on the sink, detached the cover of the exhaust fan and reached his hand inside. He swiped his fingers around and felt nothing but dust, then he put the cover back. By doing so he made sure that Moira was efficient enough to remove all the surveillance devices from Erik’s flat when he’d been at the meeting this afternoon.

Feeling slightly relieved, Charles climbed down and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. He glanced at himself in the mirror and felt both happy and ridiculous, he couldn’t help but smiled. He turned off the water and was just about to find something to dry his hands when something next to the sink caught his eyes. It was Erik’s razor, one with a simple design, almost like the disposable ones you’d find in a hotel. Charles grabbed it and lifted it before he knew what he was doing; his thumb brushed over the smooth lubrication strip, and it struck him like lightning.

It had no blade.

 _There are many possibilities_ , Charles told himself, _there are too many possibilities_. Charles tried to quench the objections and panic that flared up in his head, his hand gripping down hard on the razor; he shut his eyes, the ventilator was humming, and he realized that he was crying.

For no reason whatsoever, Charles just wasn’t able to stop his tears from falling down. He couldn’t remember the last time he burst out crying like this.

“Oh God,” he squeezed out a muffled sound from his stuffed chest, and hastily took a deep breath, wiped away tearstains from his cheeks with the bottom of his palm, then hastily took a deep breath again, only to find more tears dripping down his wrinkled nose.

He was afraid that Erik would hear him, so he put down the razor, turned on the water again and splashed it across his face.

 _I have to go out_ , Charles thought as he rubbed his cheeks with his wet hands. He looked at the mirror, trying to make himself presentable again and failing, but he opened the door nonetheless.

Erik was sitting on the sofa and absently staring at the newspaper on the table; he didn’t notice that Charles had come out. He looked so utterly perfect, there was no error, no flaw to be found on him, which made Charles query his own judgement ability immensely. He stepped onto the empty floor and walked towards Erik, the latter smiled as he lifted his head, then he saw Charles’ face and the smile was caught in between uncertainty and worry.

“Are you alright?” He asked, his hands leaving the newspaper; he seemed startled as Charles straddled his lap.

Erik carefully rested his palms on Charles’ waist, his greyish-green eyes blinking in confusion. Charles cupped his face and studied those eyes closely. He shouldn’t be doing this; he should tell Erik everything and hope that he would do the same; he should leave this place, leave all the facts and truths that might hurt and destroy him far behind; he should do a lot of things, too many things, but Charles was so exhausted tonight, he was so confused, while Erik was so perfect, so the only thing he did was leaning down and trying to kiss away every lie from those lips.

Erik tightened his grip and pulled him towards himself. Charles lifted his arms as Erik’s fingers curled beneath his sweater and took it off with his help; he pushed Erik down onto the cushions.

“Think about your poor back,” Erik propped himself up on his elbows and didn’t forget to remind him as he watched appreciatively when Charles unbuttoned his shirt. “We should go to the bed.”

“It’s fine here,” said Charles, trying to keep the nasal tone out of his voice. “We’re fine.”

Erik looked at him curiously and fondly, then pulled him down by his arms, drowning him in millions of touches and kisses.

Charles had never felt so safe, so satisfied, even if Erik was such a riddle; he let down all his guard and let Erik lead him; he let go of his thoughts and doubts and let himself fall towards the direction were he felt the warmest and his heart beat the fastest.

He foolishly wished that the next day would never dawn.

The first time Charles woke up, the day hadn’t dawned yet. The windows were colored a dull shade of grey, he blearily blinked a few times and heard a muffled groan, accompanied by a painful squeeze on his wrist.

He turned around and only then he discovered that he’d somehow been relocated onto the huge comfortable bed, facing Erik who was sleeping on the other side. Charles had never seen him leaving the floor and sleeping on the mattress; but he’d seen that expression on his face enough times − his eyes shut and his brows creased, sweat running down his forehead; his past not only invading his reality but also his dreams. His right hand was gripping Charles’ wrist with such a force that his knuckles had gone white.

Charles carefully shifted closer; he could hear Erik’s mumbling a bit clearer now, a lot of which were words that were foreign to his ears − most of them sounded like German, and amongst those German words, the word “ _Vater_ ” was repeated the most.

It was father.

But Charles didn’t spend more time paying attention to his somniloquy; he simply moved into the range of Erik’s embrace, startlingly batting away the latter’s hand that almost hit him as he jerked awake.

“It’s alright,” Charles whispered, searching for Erik’s alarmed gaze in the dark, “shh, it’s alright.”

Those heated green eyes didn’t cool down immediately, but after staring at Charles for some moments, Erik slowly closed his eyes and let out a long, heavy sigh. His body and hands relaxed with it, and he allowed himself to pull Charles into his arms.

“Nightmare,” he said matter-of-factly, his voice a drowsy rumble.

“Go back to sleep,” Charles nuzzled into his neck and closed his eyes. Beneath his thin eyelids, he felt blood gently roaring through those veins. “If you have another dream, I’ll wake you.”

He didn’t hear Erik smile, didn’t see Erik smile, but he knew Erik smiled. He kissed Charles’ lips and chin, and lingered a long time on his eyelids. Charles felt hazy but remained sober enough to notice the other man’s breathing becoming even and slow, and along with that rhythm, he let the drowsiness reach himself, too. He thought he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, because Erik could wake up any second, because he had to look after him, because without the help of alcohol, he had never had a dreamless night; but he fell asleep, and it happened so fast he couldn’t even fight it; within the blink of an eye he was falling and falling down into the bottomless pit, but this time there was no fear, there was no rain.

The second time Charles woke up, the day had already become blindingly bright.

The first thing he did after he’d opened his eyes was to look at Erik. It was quiet and bright in the room; Erik’s hand was still close to his torso, but his body sank into the mattress relaxed, his breaths deep and weighty. Charles felt both glad and sad as he looked at him for quite a long time, until those emotions piled up in his chest and made it almost impossible to breathe, then he carefully sat up and moved to the bedside.

Charles was stark-naked; he saw his own pants a few steps away, lying next to the door, while the curtain was unfortunately all open, so he had to humiliatingly wrap a blanket around his lower body. Just when he slid down the bed and was about to stand up, he found that the blanket was being held by something and couldn’t move. He turned his head and discovered that Erik was already awake, pressing down a corner of the blanket with his hand and looking at him with a half-smile.

“Where are you going?” He asked amused, his voice rough and charming.

Charles wasn’t planning to do anything unspeakable, but the scenario resembled sneaking-out-after-an-one-night-stand so much, it made his heart skip a beat.

“I thought I should get us something to eat,” he said, really meaning it, “but I have to put on my trousers first.”

“I’m not hungry,” said Erik gently, “get back in bed.”

“My trousers−”

“You didn’t seem to worry about them last night.”

Charles was pretty sure that he blushed at Erik’s teasing words, and the realization only made him more flustered, while he didn’t even know where this childish reaction had come from. Erik started laughing, his voice full of unadulterated joy. He shifted his body towards Charles and tugged him back onto the bed by his waist.

They rolled around in bed and made a tangled mess of the blankets; Erik kissed Charles’ throat, his shoulder, his upper arm and his forearm, then stopped at the finger-shaped bruises on his wrist.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his brows creasing into a soft frown.

“Compared to this, my friend,” Charles replied, his tone so overly serious that Erik raised his gaze in surprise, “my back is a more severe problem, but I think that’s my own fault, don’t you agree?”

Erik smiled nonchalantly.

“I like you, Charles. Maybe a little bit too much. You got to understand that,” he said, his tone overwhelmingly sincere. “So I hope I didn’t upset you yesterday night, given that you’ve apparently cried in my bathroom.”

Charles’ heart started racing, for one moment he thought that Erik had noticed, and he had to tell him everything; he knew he had to, sooner or later. But how could it be now, how could he tell him _now_? He’d seen the razor, but the polygraph had given them a clear answer; he’d sighed NDA after NDA before he’d started to work for the CIA, his every action would affect Moira’s career because she’d recruited him. Charles knew what he should do and what he shouldn’t, same as he knew the only way to maintain this relationship was to prove that he hadn’t been maddened by love, whereas Erik hadn’t committed treason − at least there was no evidence that he had − and he must find out _why_.

“Sorry, it’s just, I remembered something from the past,” Charles settled for this answer and Erik lowered his gaze.

“No need to apologize,” he said and paused briefly. “You know, people always ask me about the war. ‘Is it as bad as everyone says?’ or ‘How did you manage to survive intact?’”

“What do you tell them?” Charles asked softly.

“I lie,” Erik responded. “I tell them stories they want to hear.”

Charles didn’t reply, he knew Erik was going to continue.

“The truth is, nobody survives a war intact, Charles,” he said. “If you were beaten, or took somebody’s life with your own hands or watched somebody vanish from your life − those things don’t just _go_ _away_. Nobody survives intact.”

Those were shocking words to hear.

“Yes,” Charles opened his mouth, his voice was quiet but firm, “I think you’re right.”

His phone rang. Charles followed the sound and spotted his coat, which was hanging over the chair at the dining table; his phone was singing joyfully in its pocket.

“It’s mine,” he said and struggled to get on his feet. He laughed when Erik still tried to stop him, “I have to get that, it might be work.”

Erik started to protest and he was forced to abandon the blanket he’d kidnapped, so he jumped off the bed with his butt exposed, absently picking up his pants and stepping into them on the way to his phone.

It was Raven; her background was filled with voices, so she must have called on duty.

‘Good morning, brother dear,’ she said happily, “your phone in New York is still on voicemail, so I guess you’re still in D.C.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Charles smiled and sighed. “Is there anything I can help?”

‘There is. Bring your wallet, tonight I’m gonna show you the true meaning of _fine wine_.’

Charles was trying to recall if he had other plans for tonight as a hand slipped around his waist and then all the way down into his pants, the warmth of Erik’s chest against his back also made him remember that he currently wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

He lifted his arms to fight Erik’s intentions and turned around to shush him with a serious visage whilst biting back a laugh. The latter huffed out a deliberately low laugh, planted an open-mouthed kiss on Charles’ nap and went to the kitchen. The sight of him wearing nothing besides a pair of jeans had a way better sobering effect than a morning coffee, be it because of those tangled scars, or his lean waist.

‘What was that?’ Raven asked.

“Nothing,” Charles coughed.

‘Don’t _nothing_ me, you liar,’ Raven let out a muffled laugh, obviously realizing something and at the same time misunderstanding something, “bring him along.”

“Whereto?”

‘Our pub night, obviously. You keep telling me D.C. is boring as fuck − well I’m dying to know what kind of _tricky_ _work_ is making you stay here for months and _unable to sleep_.’

“It’s not what you think− God,” Charles explained nervously; he knew he didn’t sound convincing. Erik was looking for something in the cupboard and shot him a questioning look as he noticed the change in his tone.

“Is everything alright?” he asked quietly. Charles gave him an exasperated look.

“Everything’s fine, it’s just my sister,” Charles grumbled.

‘Ask him, Charles, I mean it,’ Raven threatened him in a serious tone. The last time he heard her talking like this, they’d been back in England, and she’d smashed every window on a street with a cricket bat, just because her cheating ex-boyfriend had been hiding in one of the houses.

What choice did Charles have?

“Do you want to,” Charles stammered, “do you want to join Raven and me, she’s my sister, we sometimes go out for a drink, she insists that−”

“Alright,” Erik agreed without even a split-second of hesitation. He extracted a jar of ground coffee from the cupboard, smiling. “When?”

“Tonight,” Charles answered, baffled. Raven was cheering on the other side.

‘I’ll text you the location, Charles. Love you.’ She said and hung up. Charles watched as Erik waited for the water to boil. Two different mugs were placed on the counter, the coffee was already in the filter.

“Thank you,” Charles said, somehow feeling a lump forming in his chest, “it made her very happy.”

Erik didn’t look at him, but he was smiling. He poured the hot water into the mugs.

“I guess that means we have the whole day for ourselves,” he said. “Coffee?”

Charles took the mug gratefully.

They watched three movies together − they didn’t pick out anything particular, but simply curled up lazily on the sofa, switching on the TV and hopping through the channels. Charles couldn’t even remember what they’d watched, there probably were gunshots and street racing involved, as well as tears and lots of laughter, hugs and even more kisses; Charles sneered at how clichéd the plot was, while Erik casually leaned down like the protagonist onscreen and pecked on his lips, and after that they completely ignored the plot and lost themselves in each other’s embrace.

Charles could think of endless things he longed to do with Erik; he wanted to watch those dreadful cooking shows with him, as well as those clichéd movies that would make them both snort; he wanted to stroll down the street with him, maybe buy him a fitting shirt or sweater that could bring out the color of his eyes; they’d stay in the park for a while, doing nothing but enjoying the sunlight; they’d go home together then, maybe to Erik’s or maybe Charles’ flat; they’d step under the shower together and do everything except for taking a shower; they’d change into something comfortable in the bedroom and then head out to the restaurant around the corner to eat dinner, because they were both bad at cooking; they’d return home together again and sleep on the same bed, and most of the time, there wouldn’t be any nightmares haunting them there.

He thought he might be able to take care of Erik. He couldn’t imagine who might be there to take care of Erik if he didn’t.

Later on, they indeed did the shower part of his imagination. Then Charles called a taxi as a preventive measure for a night full of alcohol, and they headed towards the bar Raven had texted him.

It was in the U Street Corridor, where lots of famous bars and clubs in D.C. were located. And for someone with Charles’ level of alcohol demand, it wasn’t an unfamiliar neighborhood. Raven chose a Jazz Bar he’d never been to before, it had a wooden interior, the dim yellow lights fell on the dark red sofas here and there, making the whole place look mysterious and elegant. When Charles and Erik pushed open the door, the band was playing an arranged version of “Songbird”.

They found Raven sitting on a barstool, shining in her fitting sweater and a miniskirt that showed off her slim long legs perfectly − it’d obviously gotten her at least one free drink already. She was now talking to a young man in a tailored suit and laughing from time to time.

Charles was just about to call out to her when she noticed them both.

“Brother dear!” She easily abandoned the young man, jumped off her barstool and rushed towards Charles; her smile was far too bright − that Apple Martini on the bar was definitely not her first drink tonight.

Charles let himself be hugged; Raven then released him and lifted her head to stare at Erik, her gaze changing from interestedly judging to fully surprised.

“This is my sister, Raven,” Charles introduced them, “and this is Erik.”

“Lieutenant Lehnsherr, of course,” Raven smiled hurriedly and said, stuttering a bit. She stretched out her hand at Erik. “God, I can’t believe you kept it from me − how did you two meet?”

Erik shook her hand; his smile was faint but sincere.

“In the water,” said Erik. He cocked his head and shot Charles a troubled look. “He held on to me for dear life − it was only our first encounter.”

“Seriously? After everything we’ve gone through − and you _joke_ about it?” Charles shot him an accusing look. Erik lowered his head and smiled.

“Last week I met a couple who weren’t able to keep their hands off each other’s buttocks, and I detained them for 72 hours,” Raven shrugged. “I’m more than willing to do the same to you.”

“I’ll get the booze,” Charles cut in.

“Wise decision,” said Raven. “Erik, how about you find us a sofa while I interrogate Charles?”

Erik walked towards the rather vacant corner with a suppressed smile playing at his lips. Raven hauled Charles towards the bar, her pink lip-glossed lips letting out a silent scream.

“Erik Lehnsherr? You must be kidding me, Charles, you’re shagging _Erik_ _Lehnsherr_?” She hissed. Charles lifted one finger nervously.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but can we please _not_ talk about shagging?” He demanded embarrassed. Raven looked at him in disbelief.

“Why? Of course we talk about shagging. He’s _very_ hot.” Then her face turned into a sympathetic but affectionate expression. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Goodness, you could just as well stab me and be done with it,” Charles groaned painfully, then he turned around and told the bartendress, “Please give me your strongest liquor, my dear.”

“No, mix it with a lot of water,” Raven said and shook her head at the guy in a suit who’d come to start another conversation, “David, this is my brother, he’s gay, his new boyfriend is _very_ sexy, so thank you for the Martini, but I’ve got a lot to catch up with him.”

Charles lifted his glass towards David in self-abandonment and took a sip of his watered-down whiskey. Raven ordered a beer for Erik, insisting that he had to drink that because he was German. Erik got them seats in the sofa area, he was leaning against the corner of the loveseat, looking comfortable as his fingers tapped against the armrest in the rhythm of the Jazz music. He smiled at Charles relaxedly.

“It’s nice here,” he took his beer and shifted his body to make room for Charles to sit down next to him.

“Raven is a cop,” Charles said grudgingly. “She knows every pub that doesn’t meet the NFPA Standards.”

“Charles is a professor,” Raven leaned forward and winked, “which means that he doesn’t know _shit_.”

Charles watched crossly as Erik and Raven started laughing together. During the following two hours, his sister seemed to be determined to exhaust this rare chance of ridiculing Charles, and, like an annoying aunt, talked extravagantly about every single embarrassing story of his youth with Erik . Erik rested his arm around Charles shoulders, laughing wholeheartedly from time to time, his expression wavering between joy and gentle mockery.

When Raven left for the bathroom in between, Charles had already drained three watered-down whiskies and two bottles of beer. It gave him enough courage to punch Erik in the guts.

“What was that for?” Erik laughed and protested. “I like your sister.”

“She’s a spoiled kid, you really don’t have to encourage her any further,” Charles warned him half-heartedly. Erik held his bottle of beer with three fingers and shook it lightly before placing it on his knees.

“If she were my sister, I’d spoil her too,” he whispered. His casual tone that didn’t show any loneliness somehow made Charles feel guilty instead. He patted Erik’s knee; the latter gazed at him with the cheerful smile that hadn’t left his lips all night.

Charles saw Raven coming back from the corner of his eye, he lifted his palm, but his hand froze mid-air. He stared in shock as Moira followed his sister through the crowd.

“Look who’s here!” Raven declared and threw her arm around Moira’s shoulder, “Moira’s just finished work, so I told her to meet up with us.”

Charles wasn’t sure who he didn’t want to look at more right now − Moira or Erik, for they were staring at each other. His heart sank into the whisky in his stomach, while his heartbeat was at the top of his throat. _Shitshitshit_.

Erik retrieved his arm that rested around Charles’ shoulder; Charles could see that the lines of his body were tensing in alarm.

“You know each other?” He said, his voice deep and quiet. Charles finally lifted his gaze, and realized that Erik was looking straight at Raven as he asked.

“Moira’s Charles’ colleague,” Raven didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere and explained happily. “They’re work for the government and− Erik?”

Erik stood up, he reached for his coat that lay on the armrest, his eyes meeting Charles’ as he bent down. Charles thought that he’d never, and would never, ever feel this scared and ashamed in his life. There was nothing in Erik’s eyes; he made him think of the night when they’d been floating in the ocean; back then they hadn’t hugged, hadn’t kissed, hadn’t smoothed each other’s nightmares, hadn’t shared a single word. Erik turned and walked away.

Charles bumped his knee into the table as he got up, almost throwing down all the bottles on it. Moira and Raven where both calling out to him, it wasn’t until their voices were swallowed by the music and chattering noises that Charles noticed that he was squeezing through the crowd and stumbling after Erik.

“Erik!” He shouted, but Erik didn’t look back; he pulled open the door rapidly and brutally, even bumping into a couple of customers who were about to walk in and leaving them swearing. Charles walked through the angry group of people, the door closing behind him and shutting out the noise, the icy air hitting him in the face. He looked around and spotted Erik on the empty street on his right.

“Erik!” He called and had to run to catch up with him. He felt that the cold wind was forcing out his tears; Erik’s shouldn’t see them. “Please, you have to stop.”

Charles caught up with Erik at the corner and reached out to grab his elbow. The latter reacted in turning around and smashing his arm into Charles’ throat, mercilessly throwing him against the wall.

The back of Charles’ head connected with the rough stony surface and he saw stars for a moment. He almost cried out in pain, but Erik’s arm was still pressing against his throat, making it hard to even breathe.

“Don’t touch me,” Erik said with a trembling voice, as if he was the one whose breath was being cut off. “Don’t you dare touching me.”

“Please,” Charles croaked, “I can’t breathe.”

Erik quickly let go of him, his movements almost hasty. He stood there with his hands down and watched as Charles coughed severely and gasped for air, using this as an excuse to let his tears run down freely.

“It was all planned, wasn’t it?” He said flatly. “There was no coincidence, you goddamn followed me, you work for the CIA, you’ve always been behind those fucking mirrors−”

“That’s right, yes,” Charles interrupted him audaciously, “yes, I work for the CIA, I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, but I can’t talk about those things−”

“Why?” Amongst everything he’d said, only this sentence hit Charles brutally in his chest. Erik’s façade cracked, showing a tiny trace of vulnerability and weariness. “Why, Charles?”

“Because you lied, Erik,” Charles sobbed, he wiped away his tears with his sleeve, “because you lie.”

_Because you lie, because you lie, I have to make up even more lies, because you seem to be so lonely, because you seem to be in such pain, because you jump into the bottomless sea, because I can think of countless things I long to do with you, because I can take care of you._

_Because I love you._

Then Erik smiled.

“You know what’s really unbearable?” Erik said; except for his smile there was nothing gentle left in his aura. “Not the torture, not the lies − for heaven’s sake I even wish you were a better liar, that way I can still believe in you, believe in us. For a time being I thought it was real, you and me.”

“But it _is_ real,” Charles didn’t want to sound so helpless and pleading. “Please, you’re using the past tense.”

Erik looked at him, there was no hate or despise in his expression, even if Charles thought there should be. Instead there was nothing at all, he simply looked at Charles unflinchingly. It was like he’d said everything. It was like saying goodbye.

“What’s unbearable is the truth, Charles,” Erik finally opened his mouth, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s always only the truth.”

He turned around and was about to leave. Charles couldn’t hold back from grabbing his arm again. This time Erik didn’t break free, he didn’t fight back, instead he let himself be dragged towards Charles and lifted his palm, and in a split-second Charles thought that he was going to push him on the ground, but that didn’t happen. Erik’s sturdy palm grasped his still throbbing nape, and his burning lips touched Charles’ in the next split-second.

He couldn’t let go. Charles was so close from screaming between their touching lips. He couldn’t let go, not here, it shouldn’t end like this. It was a broken but lingering, forceful but gentle kiss. He was tasting liquor and touching fear, anger and unadulterated, genuine adoration.

Erik pulled back first; he rested his forehead against Charles’, his palm stiffly enveloping Charles’ nape. He tried and failed to let go for a couple of times, then his fingers finally loosened like a withering flower.

“Goodbye, my love,” he whispered. His voice echoed softly in the air, until it vanished alongside his figure into the shadows of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay, but real life got in the way :(((  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter! <3

Charles called a taxi and headed home, only because he didn’t know where else to go.

He went into his black hole of a flat, only switched on the kitchen lights, took out a bottle of wine from the fridge and searched the drawers for a corkscrew. His hands were trembling in the pale light and dark shadows, maybe out of panic, maybe out of rage; Charles hadn’t been this emotional since a long time ago, he had to stop his movements, put his hands on the counter and breathe in deeply, only then his heartbeat that was hammering down all his limbs finally returned to his chest.

His doorbell rang.

Charles quickly lifted his head, he thought enraptured that it was Erik who didn’t even know which floor he lived on − this irrational thinking only lasted a split-second; the doorbell died, followed by the rattling sound of a key turning. Charles frowned and closed his eyes; he heard the sound of his door being opened, high heels hesitantly hitting the wooden floor.

“Charles,” his sister who had the spare key was calling him, her steps had already reached the kitchen. “Is everything alright?”

Charles was already smiling before he could have realized it.

“How can it not be?” He said in a weary and cynical tone. “Everything is perfect, just the way I’ll always be telling you.”

Raven was visibly startled; Charles saw her hands sliding down the doorframe and taking a defensive pose across her chest; he felt sorry but at the same time didn’t want to comfort her − God he loved her so much, but he’d never felt this exhausted, he’d never wanted this badly to just stop cleaning up Raven’s mess. He was angry with her, he knew that he had every reason to, but those reasons weren’t reasonable − it wasn’t her fault.

“Moira doesn’t want to tell me what happened,” Raven tried again in a suppressed voice. “You and Erik just stormed out and didn’t come back, if it’s again something you can’t tell me about…”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Charles interrupted her and continued searching for the corkscrew.

“Why do you always say that to me?” Raven raised her voice, she stepped forward and tried to snatch away the wine bottle on the counter. “Why do you always use alcohol as an excuse to avoid me? I know you’re hiding something, I know you can blame it all on fucking homeland security, but our problem has been going on for much, much longer, Charles.”

“Give me back the wine,” Charles said tranquilly. He finally met Raven’s gaze; his sister’s nose was red, her expression earnest but calm, alarmed but sober; she rose her hand and tossed the bottle into the corner of the kitchen. The murky glass shattered at the impact with the concrete wall, dark red liquid flowing on the wooden floor.

They kept a short-lived silence in the narrow space, then Charles lost it.

“You want to talk about everything?” He asked while clenching his fingers into fists on the counter. “Alright, let’s talk about it, then. I’m tired of cleaning up after you all the time, Raven, you are not a child anymore, you have _your_ own life, I have _my_ own life-”

“I am your burden,” said Raven sharply, “is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I love you,” Charles growled. “Don’t you see that that’s the exact problem? I’d do everything for you, bloody _everything_!”

“Stop saying that you love me, Charles,” Raven raised one finger warningly. They were almost yelling at each other now. “You know that means nothing.”

“I know that Kurt hit you,” Charles’ words slipped out his lips without any further thoughts, he didn’t care if this had shaken Raven or startled himself, right now he didn’t care about anything. “I know that he never stopped beating you after I’d left home for the States, I know that you won’t tell me anything, but did you really think that I wouldn’t notice? You rarely went home, you smashed everything you found on the streets, you wore those long-sleeved jumpers at midsummer-”

Raven stared at him with a shocked expression. Her face was pale and she crossed her arms again.

“How perceptive of you, brother dear,” she said in a trembling voice. She pulled her lips into a cruel smile that was part mockery part fear. “But what did _you_ care, anyway? You left me with those two goddamn drunkards to go to your oh-so-great American uni, you treat me like I’m a bloody lunatic, you send me to that psychiatrist-”

Raven’s voice broke off. She turned away her gaze, dropped her head and inhaled quickly and heavily. When she looked up again, her expression was almost indifferent.

“But you know what? That doesn’t matter anymore,” she said quietly. “Screw you.”

She turned around and walked away.

“I killed Kurt!” Charles yelled after her. “Is that what you want to know?”

Raven stopped. She turned.

“What did you say?” Her voice was so small, it almost wasn’t recognizable. Her entire upper body was swallowed by the shadow that the kitchen lights weren’t able to reach.

“I knew that he drove to the local pub every night,” Charles said stiffly. “So I cut the brakes of his car − it was raining the whole time that week − it was so easy, he couldn’t have found out − he hadn’t the time to find out-”

“God, Charles.”

“I said I’d take care of you,” Charles lowered his head and put his hands on the counter again, only because he was now shaking like a branchlet in the storm. “I swear I will. I’m sorry that I ran away, I’m sorry that you had to face those things alone, I’m really trying to make up for it − I don’t know what else to do.”

The moment his voice broke and shattered, Raven came to his side. Her steps were so gentle, her soft and warm body pressed onto Charles’ as she hugged his shoulders from behind. She was like a shield, like a cocoon, Charles saw tears dropping down and splashing onto the counter; maybe those were his tears, maybe those were Raven’s tears, it was the downpour that had to fall on his life. He knew that he’d eventually wake and perk up and see that Raven was still her, his sister who had to be cared for, trusted, protected and loved.

“He deserved to die,” Charles took Raven’s palm into his; her fingers were so thin. “I just wanted everything to stop.”

“Yes,” Raven sobbed behind his ear, her voice only a whisper. “Yes, thank you.”

Then his sister softly repeated those words of gratitude hundreds of times while pressing her beautiful head onto Charles’ neck, hugging him tighter and tighter in the dim room. He was able to make out the same amount of apology from her voice, and it lightened his heart, even if there was no reason for her to apologize.

He thought about that summer’s day again, his little sister had cried the whole way from school back to the mansion, burying her face into Charles’ shirt, unwilling to let go the entire evening, only because some naughty girl at her school had painted her face blue. Charles had wanted to laugh but he couldn’t have, and he’d stolen glance of her tear-stained blue face beneath her faint blonde hear. He’d held his sister, curled up in the sofa, and had read every book his hands could’ve reached, until she’d finally fallen asleep.

Then he’d seen brutal bruises beneath the sleeves of her school uniform − he’d known better than anyone where those bruises had come from, and rage and fear had devoured his thoughts like a tsunami. He’d fought back against Kurt the first time that evening; he’d wrestled the fire tongs that he’d tried to use to beat him from his hands and smashed it into the wine cabinet in the study. He’d been almost the same height as Kurt back then, and he’d seen shock, fury and blatant fear in his eyes. He tossed the fire tongs at the feet of his stepfather, and left for the States with his admission to Columbia University in hand.

He’d naïvely thought that it would’ve been a solution; he’d naïvely given in to his fear of that violence and the joy of his escape and left his young sister in that living hell. Charles had always known that he was no saint; he hadn’t felt any kind of hesitancy or guilt as he cut the brakes; he hadn’t even thought of ever telling Raven. But Charles asked himself whether these buried secrets had been gradually destroying his relationship with everyone around him. Because just like Erik had said, what’s unbearable was always the truth.

He then asked himself whether Erik’s lies, those things that he might do, whether they were also like the crimes Charles had committed, whether they also had to be woven and twisted and framed.

_But still it’s the lies above the truths that destroyed us, Erik._

Charles thought.

_Don’t let them destroy you too._

The next morning, Raven gave Charles a ride in her beautiful Corvette to Lincoln Memorial in order to pick up his shabby old Honda. She was wearing her pajamas − Charles hoodie back from his days at the university’s debate club − and lowered the window to kiss her brother’s cheek.

“Good luck, brother dear,” she said. Her voice had never been softer and lighter, it was almost flying away. “You know I’ve always got your back.”

Charles only smiled and brushed back a strand of her golden hair.

Then he found his car in the corner of the parking lot, got into the driver’s seat, turned on the engine and felt the heater warming up. He started to feel like this was all a dream. Not even 48 hours ago, Erik had been here, kissing him, craving him, while at that time Charles couldn’t have thought of anything that could’ve split them apart − until now. He felt extremely exhausted, but at the same time his mind was crystal clear.

Charles let go of the brakes, turned the steering wheel and drove out of the parking lot.

After a silent and fast drive, Charles arrived at the checkpoint and the familiar guard stepped forward. For a moment Charles felt that he might be halted, brought to one of those million small rooms at Langley, cut off from the rest of the world and interrogated about everything he ever knew, while Raven would never know where he’d gone.

But that didn’t happen. The guard showed him his usual friendly smile, checked his ID and lifted the boom gate for him.

“Have a nice day, professor,” he said, and Charles desperately needed this wish.

Just as usual, Angel reluctantly called her superior and told her that there was a visitor for her before she continued glaring at Charles from behind her desk. Charles could hear that there indeed was someone in the office, but Moira made him wait for an hour and a half − maybe it was some kind of punishment, Charles didn’t know and didn’t want to feel angry or upset, either. It wasn’t her fault, after all. Then Angel’s phone rang, she picked it up, nodded a few times and pointed at the office door furiously before she hung up.

Moira sat behind her desk. It didn’t seem like she had anything urgent to do; or maybe she was watching Charles in such a quiet and direct manner, simply because she wanted him to feel like a bad student who was walking into the principal’s office. Charles sat down in the armchair across the desk. He didn’t show any anxiety or tried to explain himself; he wanted for Moira to speak up first.

“How did you meet Erik Lehnsherr?” Moira indeed granted him his wish.

“That night when I followed him to Baltimore,” Charles replied without hesitation. “I thought he was meeting someone, but he didn’t. He simply stood on the beach for a while and then jumped into the sea. I did what everyone would do: I pulled him out of the water.”

“Why?”

“‘Only going for a swim,’ according to him,” Charles felt himself smiling and thought that it was inappropriate, so he pulled down the corners of his mouth. “But no, I think he only wanted to kill himself in a passive way.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why did you keep it from me?”

“Have you ever−” Charles paused and lowered his gaze. “Have you ever had this experience? Of keeping a secret not because it’s big or important, but because speaking it out might bring shame to yourself, or simply because it’s very precious.”

Moira was quiet for a few seconds.

“Can you define your relationship?”

Charles lifted his head, his gaze meeting Moira’s in a soft but resolute way.

“I’ve quitted,” he said. Moira smiled a slightly mocking smile.

“I haven’t sacked you yet.”

“I talking about my job at the university,” Charles corrected her calmly. Moira looked surprised. “I’m not a professor anymore, Moira.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re right,” he said. “Not about everything, but you know you’re right. I want to offer my help − I think that I really can help, if you still want me to.”

Moira fell silent. She intertwined her fingers on her desk and looked at her hands.

“How can I know that you haven’t been influenced by him?” Moira opened her mouth after several long moments, her voice pulling Charles’ gaze back from the window frame.

“He is exactly the reason why I’m sitting here, Moira,” Charles said slowly. “I love him, no matter whether it’s now or anytime from now, I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving him. It bloody scares me, but it’s the truth.”

Moira looked at him. She looked worried but it made Charles feel grateful − she still thought of him as a friend.

“You know that you sound completely mad, don’t you?” Moira said. There was no accusation in her tone, only uncertainty. “He might be a terrorist, Charles. Nobody buys this, but I know what I’m talking about.”

“I’ll do my best to avoid any possible terrorist attacks for you,” Charles said. “I’ll help you catch your terrorist, but that won’t be Erik Lehnsherr, do you understand? When everything is done, he is either dead or walking away unharmed, no charges, no G-Bay.”

“Is this a negotiation?” Moira sounded alarmed now. “Do you seriously think that you can still bargain about anything with me?”

“If you can offer your POWs protection and pardon in exchange for valuable intelligence, why can’t you do the same for an old friend?” Charles said gently. “We may have different motives, but we all want to prevent bad things from happening.”

Moira let out a heavy sigh. She turned her face to watch the boring view outside her window. Her brown eyes were golden under the reflection of the sunlight.

“You know that I don’t have that power,” she said in a low voice. “At the end of the day, I’m only an analyst.”

“I know that you are basically the only person who’s still after this case, if you don’t count Hank and me,” Charles continued to persuade her. “Just give me that promise, Moira. I’ll do it no matter what, the only difference is that with your help, everything would turn from illegal into ‘almost legal’.”

Moira smiled, still facing the window. She rested her chin in her hand, her eyes darting back at Charles, her expression relaxing a great deal.

“You know what, Charles, I’ve always thought that you had a strange taste,” she said in a quite serious tone. “You obviously do − we’ve known each other for almost four years and you haven’t asked me out even _once_.”

Charles smiled, too.

“Well, I know a nice pub,” he said softly, “that’s open at day time. They make good cocktails.”

Moira pondered for a few moments.

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Their sandwiches are very delicious as well.”

“Alright, why not?” Moira shrugged and stood up. Charles took off her coat from the coat rack next to the door and helped her into it.

“I drink, you drive, you pay,” she muttered, turned around and gave him a brief smile. “Deal?”

Charles planted a gentle kiss on top of her soft hair.

“Deal.”

Charles found Hank in the archive.

His tall but timid friend was burying himself behind his computer and writing some kind of extremely difficult looking program. Charles had heard from Moira that his recent task was to convert Langley’s old paper documents into electronic files. He was just the help that Charles needed right now.

He put a cup of takeaway coffee on the desk; it caught Hank’s attention. Hank lifted his head, his gaze first surprised and then shifting into sympathy.

“This tastes a lot better than the instant coffee here at Langley,” Charles said gently. Hank muttered a thanks.

“I’ve heard of what happened,” he said straight-forwardly, his fingers leaving his keyboard hesitantly; he moved his chair slightly in order to face Charles.

“Which part? How I’ve ruined everything, or how I’ve _really_ ruined everything?”

Hank smiled.

“Do you want to hear a story, professor?”

“Please, call me Charles,” Charles took a seat at his desk and wrinkled his nose. “Given that I’m not a professor anymore.”

“The second year I joined the CIA, they sent me to surveil somebody. It was very similar to what you’ve done − sitting across the monitor the whole day and watching your target’s life. The only difference was that I didn’t analyze anything. I only observed and submitted the video files.”

“The target was a young woman. She was twenty-two years old and majoring in physics at college. She was working at the local restaurant at night. She was quiet and sweet and could never be associated with the term ‘suspicious’.” Hank lay back into his chair, his fingers tugging on a thread on his cuff. “Two weeks later, I started to let my guard down. I even thought I might actually like her a little bit. Every now and then, when I didn’t have to sit in front of the monitors, I’d go to her restaurant, order a coffee and sit there the whole evening.”

“In the third week, our field agents found a storage room she’d rented under a false name and there was a half-finished bomb inside. She’d been stealing material from her lab the whole time. There were enough explosives in that storage room to blow up half a street.”

Charles was silent for a moment.

“You’re telling me that one shouldn’t trust something by its appearance,” he then said.

“No, I’m telling you that attachment is natural,” Hank answered him calmly. “The only question is whether it’s worth it.”

Charles stared at the brown stain of a coffee cup on the paper at Hank’s hand.

“I don’t know him, Hank,” he then sighed. “None of us know them, still we think that we’ve already seen everything. I hope I can change that.”

“I hope I can help.”

“You might,” Charles opened the folder in his hands and pushed it towards a skeptical Hank. “This is Erik Lehnsherr’s data. You were there when Moira gave it to me.”

“Yes, and I don’t have the clearance to read most of it,” Hank turned away his gaze nervously. “You’ve already memorized everything that day, if I recall correctly.”

“Lehnsherr called for his father a lot in his sleep. He also said that in his early childhood, he’d visited D.C. several times with his father. But all of that wasn’t mentioned in his files. In fact, there’s almost nothing about his parents in his files.” Charles slowly finished his sentence, his gaze falling straight and heavily into Hank’s eyes. “I believe that we can find at least something here. But the problem is, I don’t have the clearance to read most of it, either.”

Hank glanced at the folder and understood what Charles meant.

“Is this your first time coming here, Charles?” He said and looked around the dim-lit room. Their desk was surrounded by huge iron shelves that were laden with boxes of archives; it was quiet and lifeless. “It’s old and moist and dark. Nobody comes down here.”

“In order to refile these documents, I believe Langley has given you enough clearance to open them,” Charles said softly.

“Actually,” Hank showed an almost naughty smile. He pulled out another chair from beside the bookshelf. “I was able to hack into their database when I was a sophomore at college, so I guess I can get you the things you need.”

“And you told me you were recruited from college,” Charles sat down on that chair, smiling.

“It saved us both a lot of trouble. I wasn’t put in handcuffs, and they could stop deleting things like ‘Shit-I-A’ from their intranet.”

Charles put both his hands on Erik’s personal data, dropped his gaze and smiled.

“You know what, Hank,” he said, “I have a sister − the one I’ve mentioned to you before − she’d definitely adore your humor. After all this is over, maybe you two should meet some time.”

“Is this some kind of payback?” Hank smiled self-consciously. “No offense, but I do hope she doesn’t chase after danger like you do.”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Charles burst into laughter. “She looks like a sweet angel, and I swear on my life that she doesn’t know how to build a bomb.”

Given that the archive was way too old and big, at first they found nothing. Then Hank suggested that he might have to get into the database of other institutions in order to find further information. Charles decided that he shouldn’t keep standing next to the computer and give him any invisible pressure. He starting doubting the fact that they might find anything at Langley at all, and was grateful of the fact that Hank was willing to take the risk and try other ways. After all, before he was defined as a terrorist by Moira, Erik Lehnsherr had only been a well-esteemed lieutenant. But Charles still had hope. Erik had transferred between various AFBs and had done all sorts of spying and intelligence work, so he must have possessed enough security clearance. While Charles knew that in this country, one had to give up most of one’s own privacy in order to gain that kind of clearance.

He dove into the endless metal shelves and tried to make out some kind of order in the numbering of those folders and shelves. It wasn’t difficult − it was just like the library at university; Charles had always been good at finding the book he was searching for. Charles stopped in front of the shelf of 1999; it was the year Erik joined the army. But this _wall_ of documents was twice as wide as his arm span, and way taller than he could reach on his tip-toes.

He felt immensely upset and powerless. _But you don’t have anything else to do, Charles_ , he then thought, _so why don’t you sit down and read about all the bullshit that happened in the past decades, and see if you can dig out any treasure?_

He took out the first box of folders, and sat down cross-legged on the icy floor.

They had their first break-through at 9 p.m. that evening.

At the time, Moira had already brought them dinner and had gone through a dozen boxes with Charles. Hank called their names from across the room.

“Car crash,” he said as Charles walked to his desk and turned his monitor towards them, “Lehnsherr’s parents died in a car crash. An alcohol-impaired driver rear-ended them on full speed on a small road in Neuruppin. All three of them died on the spot.”

Moira bent down towards the screen. She frowned in confusion.

“These are documents of the U.S. embassy in Germany,” she said and pulled up the corners of her mouth into a smile. “Let’s not talk about how you got into their database in the first place − how come that Lehnsherr’s parents’ data are in here?”

“Fun fact,” Hank said, “it says here that Lehnsherr senior was a U.S. citizen, so the embassy took charge of the investigation right after the accident happened. They were also in charge of getting lieutenant Lehnsherr to the States.”

“No, both he and his brother Max Lehnsherr were born and raised in Heidelberg, both their parents were German as well,” Moira countered confused, “even if we don’t know that much about him, we've got to at least know his nationality.”

Hank shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t know, that’s all I could find,” he turned around and took out the data he’d just printed out, put them into a folder and gave it to Charles.

“I believe I can make a call,” Charles held the folder and asked Moira tentatively. “You know, get in touch with the local police station and see if I can get the accident report. Maybe that’ll bring us further information.”

“I can get the accident report,” Hank cut in.

“No. You. Stop. Only God knows how many databases you still want to hack into with our computers!” Moira bellowed at Hank, then turned around to face Charles; she ran her fingers through her dark brown hair irritably. “Yes, you can make that call, Charles. But you can wait till tomorrow. You should go home now.”

“I can sleep on that sofa in your office,” Charles responded earnestly.

“No, never,” Moira laughed, “that’s my spot. Go home, take a shower and have a good night’s sleep, and get us some nice coffee tomorrow morning.”

Charles gave in. He wished Moira and Hank a good night and drove back to his flat in D.C., put on rubber gloves and cleaned up the shattered wine bottle that Raven had tossed into the corner of the kitchen. He wiped the floor and scrubbed the counters, then he stood there and opened the folder Hank had given him, stared at the number of the police station and the name of the police officer that handled the case and switched on his phone. Then he remembered that there was time lag and that it was in the wee hours over there. Nobody would want to provoke the German policemen on night shift with an old buried case like this.

Before he put down his phone, Charles caught a glimpse of the last number he’d dialed. He was blinded by the glaring light of the phone screen in the dark room and took it as an excuse to accidentally press down the call button. The sound of the ringing tone only echoed twice in the empty kitchen before it was hastily cut off, before he could have had the time to sink deeper into his shock.

Charles dropped his phone and opened the fridge. He took out the two bottles of wine that were inside, removed the corks and poured the content down the sink that still smelled of sanitizer. He thought that the bottles were burning cold and watched the dark red liquid spinning and disappearing down the drain.

The police officer’s name was Moritz Weber.

He had retired from the Neuruppin police station three years ago. Just like most Germans Charles knew, his English was fluent and had a heavy accent.

Charles waited until it was 9 a.m. in D.C. and 3 p.m. in Germany before he made the call. The officer at the police station verified his identity, then faxed the accident report to his flat and gave him a private phone number. It took Charles half an hour to read the report, then he dialed that private number and Weber himself picked up the call. Given that it was a closed case from over twenty years ago, Charles wasn’t surprised to hear disbelief and distrust in Weber’s voice.

‘Believe it or not, I do remember that case,’ Weber said in his scratchy voice. ‘This is a very small town, Mr. Xavier.’

“I’ve read the accident report you’ve written, Mr. Weber. You were the first police officer to arrive at the scene.” Charles said. There was a sudden applause on Weber’s side of the line. He was probably watching some kind of game show.

‘Yes, it happened in the afternoon − about the same time as now,’ the elderly man replied pondering, ‘I was quite surprised when I got a call about a car crash. Normally there are people accidentally hitting wild animals in the morning or evening fog at most. But it was a bright sunny afternoon that day, there was nothing hindering the view.’

“You arrived at the scene. What did you see?”

‘Two cars rear-ending and rolling to the edge of the road, one of them was already on fire, obviously no one survived,’ Weber paused and continued more hesitantly. ‘I believe that’s all written clearly in the accident report.’

“Yes, it’s just−” Charles massaged his temple with his free hand, “I know that it happened a long time ago, Mr. Weber, but about the fact that the U.S. embassy took over this case−”

‘I thought your people took over,’ Weber interrupted him. Charles swallowed back what he was about to say.

“I’m sorry?”

‘The CIA, didn’t you say that you’re from the CIA? Your people arrived only five minutes after me and took control of the scene immediately. I called my superiors and asked whether they had the right to do that, but he said that I should simply follow their orders,’ Weber’s voice was mocking; he sounded not convinced of what had happened back then. ‘Maybe you thought you’ve caught some terrorists or something, I don’t know.’

It took Charles some time to process this new information. He scribbled down everything on his notebook.

“What happened afterwards?”

‘They told me to write the report and close it as an accident, because it indeed looked like one,’ Weber huffed out a sigh through his nose. After a short sequence of footfalls, the applause in his TV melted into the silence. ‘This was all over twenty years ago, I don’t understand−’

“You don’t sound convinced of that conclusion,” Charles pointed out. Weber took a few deep breaths and remained silent for some time. “I’m not accusing you of anything, Mr. Weber. I don’t mean to trouble you, either.”

‘What do you want, then?’ Weber grumbled. He didn’t sound friendly, but not aggressive either.

“If possible, the truth,” said Charles.

Weber was silent for another couple of second. This time when he opened his mouth again, his voice was indifferent but fiery.

‘I’ve been living in this town for over sixty years, Mr. Xavier, over half of which I’ve been a policeman, I know when something isn’t right.’

“What do you mean?”

‘The driver who was drunk, Thomas, he was a homeless man,’ Weber let out a clumsy laugh. ‘Whenever he had money, he’d buy beer. I met him on the plaza every day; he sat on the ground and played his guitar. You know that kind of happy drinkers.’

“Yes.” Charles replied vaguely.

‘The point is, Thomas never got drunk, he never got into trouble. The car he was driving had been reported stolen two days before the accident, but I simply can’t imagine him stealing a car. He was a homeless man, not a criminal − he even was a friend, do you understand?’

“Yes.”

‘But others don’t understand,’ Weber stated. ‘Do you know what “homeless” means, Mr. Xavier?’

“No, I don’t.”

‘Nobody investigates,’ he said, ‘nobody cares.’

Their conversation entered a theatrical pause, as if Weber deliberately created it, only to give Charles enough time to think. Then, after a few seconds, or an even longer time, the old man wished him a good day, and ended this lengthy and distant call.

Charles sat there, his phone in hand. The CIA, a traffic accident, an honest but silent cop, a dead homeless man, three victims, one orphan.

Erik who was isolated under heavy examination. His Erik.

Charles wanted to tell him that he was still investigating, that he still cared. He wanted to say that he’d been so completely wrong, that he was sorry. But he could do better, he had to do better.

Charles grabbed the notebook and his car keys and left the apartment.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue was taken from XMFC.

Hank apparently hadn’t started his day yet. Charles put the paper bag with a cup of coffee on his desk and walked through the iron shelves in dead silence. There were still some opened card boxes on the floor. He closed them and put them back to where they belonged. Then he walked through the years and found the area of 1985.

He’s just taken off a box and carried it to the long table in the middle as the door of the archive was pulled open. Charles raised his head as he heard the sound and wanted to greet Hank. But it wasn’t Hank who came in. He first saw the irony grey suit and then the eyes of Sebastian Shaw, looking straight at him.

Charles was quite surprised to see him here, but Shaw didn’t seem to share his surprise. He smiled and buttoned up his suit as he walked towards Charles.

“Professor Xavier,” he said as he approached Charles, who hastily stood up. “How are you?”

“I-I’m fine, thank you,” Charles replied hesitantly. “I didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

“Moira said that she finally officially hired you, so I thought I should come and say hello.” Shaw kept his smile as he pulled out the chair and gestured for Charles to sit down, too. “You know she’s one of our best analysts. And judging by the past results, you are our best external consultant.”

Charles muttered a thanks and sat down. He felt rather guilty now for overstepping his security clearance and peeking into classified information.

“But I was surprised you quit your job at the university,” Shaw said gently; he sounded genuinely regretful. “What led to that decision?”

Charles opened his mouth, hesitated for a moment and answered.

“Many things don’t seem right,” he said reservedly. “I want to bring them back on track.”

Shaw leaned back into his chair and rested his chin on one palm and his expression was unreadable in its shadow. He watched the card box in front of Charles.

“1985,” Shaw pointed out casually. “Interesting year, wasn’t it? The first time since 1914, we became a debtor nation; Gorbachev became the General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union; the U.S. and the USSR discussed the possibility of reducing the number of nuclear weapons at the Geneva Summit−”

He paused, put down his hand and put it on the armrest instead. His gaze followed the movement of his hands. He slowly stroked the wooden armrest with his fingers.

“I think there are things we have to clarify, professor, given that you’ve truly become one of us now.”

“I’m listening.”

“The world isn’t safe,” Shaw said quietly, his voice echoing dully in the archive. “Be it in the past, or be it right now at this moment. Our people aren’t stupid, they know that well enough, they want to be protected, but don’t want to know _how_ they are protected. They think − in fact, no offense − _you_ think that all we have to do is cry out our ideas, that there will be someone who listens, that there will be someone who values them. You know that the world is full of danger, but at the same time, you think it’s so very safe.”

Charles looked at him and didn’t respond.

“We don’t do that here, professor. We don’t cry out our ideas, we perform them; we don’t care if they seem right or wrong, we don’t care about the never-ending disputes, we don’t publicly admit or deny anything; we keep quiet; we succeed, or we die; we carve stars onto the Memorial Wall.”

“When we don’t care whether our methods are right or wrong, the world is unsafe,” Charles objected mildly.

Shaw cocked his head. He didn’t seem offended; he simply looked at Charles as if he found everything very interesting.

“See?” He smiled and said and snapped his fingers at Charles. “This is the never-ending dispute.”

The door to the archive was pulled open again. Moira stepped into the room and stopped as soon as she saw Shaw.

“Sir,” she exclaimed surprised, “why are you−”

“I was just about to leave,” Shaw stood up elegantly. “It was nice talking to you, professor.”

Charles nodded at him. Moira made room for him to pass through the door. She turned towards Charles after the door had been fully closed.

“What’s this all about? What did he say?”

“He just came to ascertain if I’m depraved enough to join this big family,” Charles said sarcastically and leaned forward to open the card box on the table. “Coffee is over there.”

“Very funny,” Moira roared aggressively. “Have you got the accident report?”

“Even better,” Charles took out the fax of those reports from his briefcase. “I called the police officer who was in charge. He told me that it wasn’t the U.S. Embassy that took over, but people from Langley.”

Moira took the report and leaned against the desk as she looked at Charles dubiously.

“Is he sure about that?”

“He even called his superiors to make sure of that, Moira,” Charles let go of the card box that brought him nowhere and carried it back to the shelf. “Would it have left any records?”

“Usually yes,” Moira said hesitantly from across the desk. “We don’t send out people without reason, they always act with a purpose.”

Charles felt reassured when he heard that. He took off the other card box and went back to the desk. Moira was still standing there and looking at the fax in her hands. Charles’ fingers rubbed the edge of the card box hesitantly.

“Do you know−” he said. Moira lifted her head. “Do you know how lieutenant Lehnsherr is doing?”

“He’s been attending a lot of military meetings recently, I guess it’s got something to do with the maneuver next week,” Moira dropped her gaze again and answered carelessly. “But no, I don’t know if he’s at home building a bomb or being lovelorn.”

“I almost called him last night,” Charles ignored the cruel joke. Moira looked up and glared at him.

“You what?”

“I only wanted to talk to him,” Charles explained. “You don’t understand, Moira. If he really was turned, why would he want to have anything to do with me? Why would he spend so much time to−”

_Love me._

As if an invisible but warm hand clutched his throat, Charles choked on his words and almost dropped the card box in his arms.

His heart almost broke therefor. It wasn’t until now that this thought really reached him. Erik loved him, and that was such a misplaced action, just like how Charles had jumped into the sea for him − there was no difference. He could fool the polygraph; he might have even fooled everybody and handed a blade to a highly valuable asset, but he was unguarded and indefensible in front of Charles; he talked about his past, both sober and in his sleep, and made Charles eventually find a clue that was worth investigating. Up until now, he’d been preoccupied with his own feelings for Erik, but at the same time he didn’t realize that he might have had the same impact on him.

Moira was still waiting for him to finish his sentence, but Charles couldn’t gulp out another sound. He pushed the card box towards Moira and went to get even more documents from the shelf. He hid himself behind the stacked boxes and rubbed his face and eyes for a long time. Then he let out a sigh and started going through those old documents.

“What’s Operation WALL?” Charles asked. Hank put away his half-eaten sushi roll and lifted his head from behind the computer. Moira had left them three hours ago and returned to the civil world upstairs to take care of her official duties.

“Never heard of it. Why are you asking?”

“I think I’ve just found the data of the field agents,” Charles said skeptically and held up a folder full of censored documents. “5th of July 1985, Neuruppin Germany, Langley sent three men, but their names have been blotted out. The box for ‘purpose’ only says ‘terminate Operation WALL codename H’.”

Hank stretched out his hand, so Charles walked towards him with the folder.

“Let’s see if we can find anything in the database,” Hank said as he typed the code for Operation WALL into the search box. As soon as he hit the enter key, there was a big sign popping out on the screen, showing that they lacked security clearance.

Charles took the keyboard and try to log in with his own account. Again, the computer beeped a sharp warning. They looked at each other.

“Can you get it?” Charles asked. Hank shook his head first; then he nodded.

“It might take some time, you got to have the highest clearance. I can’t get my own computer inside, while they just gave me this tin box,” Hank kicked the computer at his feet. “It’s ironic isn’t it? You can’t get inside Langley while you _are_ actually inside Langley. Couple of years ago I’ve−”

“I’ll go find Moira and see if she knows anything,” Charles interrupted him gently. “Thank you, Hank.”

Charles took a couple of relevant folders, left the archive and took the elevator to go upstairs. He pushed down the third floor, leaned against the corner of the metal box and looked at the ground. The door opened when the elevator reached the first floor, along the bright daylight, there were a pair of stilettos shining inside. Charles raised his head abruptly and found himself looking right into Emma’s eyes.

Emma had just lifted her gaze from her blackberry phone; she only hesitated for a split-second when she saw Charles, then she elegantly stepped into the elevator just before the doors started to close and occupied the other corner. At first they kept a friendly silence − much to Charles’ delight − then, unfortunately, he felt Emma’s gaze floating towards his direction. That was truly something new, given that Emma had always ignored him before.

“What do you want to know?” His vice director eventually spoke up. Charles had no choice but to meet her eyes.

“I’m sorry?” He asked politely. Emma still looked completely apathetic.

“I saw your folders. What do you want to know about Operation WALL?”

Charles was surprised and took a hasty glance of the folders in his hands. There was nothing on the cover except the CIA symbol and a tiny file number, but he had no time to think about how Emma noticed that. She saw that he was showing not reaction and turned her attention back towards her continuously beeping phone. Then the elevator reached the third floor and Charles was ready to flee when Emma pulled him back into the metal box with her spare hand. Charles watched helplessly as the door closed in front of his eyes and the elevator started moving again.

When the door opened again, Emma looked up from her phone again and lifted her chin towards Charles.

“I’ve got a meeting on this floor,” she said. “Walk me there?”

Charles followed her out nervously.

This floor was relatively quiet, on one side of the corridor there were conference rooms with closed doors, the other side was facing the inner yard. Emma almost immerged into the bright corridor, wearing her snow-white suit; her shoulder-long golden hair sparkled under the sunlight. She took out her phone battery and put it, along with her hand, into her pocket. It was the first time Charles got to walk beside her and see her slowing down her pace.

“You’ve got your phone?” She asked. Charles touched his pocket almost by reflex and took out his phone. Emma immediately took it from him and detached the battery. She almost looked content as she handed the phone back to Charles.

“Is Moira still after 2nd Lt Lehnsherr’s case?” She then asked a question that Charles wasn’t able to answer.

“She’s busy, ma’am,” Charles put his phone back into his pocket perplexed and answered reserved. “I believe that Moira is someone who abides the rules.”

“Of course she is,” Emma said carelessly, “but are you?”

“I wouldn’t do anything that might harm homeland security, if that’s what you mean.”

“If you want to stay more than 24 hours in this building without a visitor pass, even your great-grandparents have to be investigated. So yes, Charles, I know that you’re not a threat to homeland security,” Emma said in a sarcastic tone; there was an almost invisible smile on her face. “At least not yet. But you should know that once you’ve logged into the database, everything you search for will be recorded, while searching for information you neither have access to nor should have searched in the first place−”

“If I don’t get to the bottom of it,” Charles interrupted her quietly, “how am I to know what I’m allowed to search for and what not?”

Emma huffed out a laugh; it didn’t sound indifferent but it wasn’t friendly either. Two analysts passed by and greeted her with a nod.

“You do what we ask you to, it’s that simple,” she said, then turned her face to look at Charles. “But guess what? I’ll tell you what Operation WALL is.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll most likely never find out about it, and today is your lucky day.”

Charles watched Emma with a confused look on his face, not knowing whether he should believe her or not.

“We started this operation in 1962, by the way, if you remember, that’s the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis. The relationship between the U.S. and the Soviet Union was worse than ever, so Langley decided to do something to stop this seemingly endless toing and froing,” she looked straight-forward as she spoke, her tone following the rhythm of her heels hitting the floor. “And the result was Operation WALL. We send our best and most inconspicuous agents to go undercover in the Soviet Union.”

“In their government?”

“No,” Emma corrected him like a teacher. “In the organizations that wanted the Soviet Union to dissolve. We already knew that an attack from the outside wouldn’t be effective. It was just like the Trojan Horse − we hid our men and simply waited.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, the Soviet Union indeed dissolved, didn’t?” Emma stopped in the middle of the corridor and gestured towards the door next to them, meaning that she’d reached her destination. “We ended the operation a year after the dissolution; most of the agents returned home. In order to make sure that their names wouldn’t be leaked, we closed their files and gave everyone a new identity.”

“Most of them?”

“We have a Memorial Wall, darling, it’s downstairs, you should spend some time looking at it,” Emma took a glance at her watch and Charles understood that their conversation was reaching its end. He leafed through the folder he’d found and showed it to Emma, who was just about to open the door to the conference room.

“Please tell me,” Charles pointed at a sentence on that page. Emma studied his expression carefully and then looked at the document. “What does ‘codename H’ mean?”

Emma’s long eyelashes trembled for a long time, so long that Charles almost thought that he’d never get an answer, especially because Emma had already pushed open the door, and through the crack of the door, he could hear quiet but clear voices talking over each other.

“Hellfire,” the she said in a low voice and quickly dissolved into that noisy crack. The wooden door closed soundlessly in front of Charles.

Charles stood there for a while, then he went back to the elevator. He pushed the button and got in, but he didn’t choose to go to the third floor, where Moira’s office was, or to the archives, where Hank and his phone were. Instead, Charles went to the lobby; he swiped his card, passed the security check, squeezed through groups of agents and visitors and arrived in front of that white marble wall.

Charles had seen this wall countless times, when he came to work, when he went off work, whenever he entered or left the building, he would always pass by this wall, and he knew everything about its purpose and its story. There was a black Moroccan goatskin-bound book sitting in a steel frame beneath the stars, topped by an inch-thick plate of glass. It showed the stars, arranged by the year they were carved into the wall, and the names of the employees that weren’t still secret.

There were 102 stars, the names of not even 70 of whom are listed in the book, the others were involved in still classified information and had to remain secret.

Charles couldn’t turn away his gaze. He looked at the year 1985, there was only one star there, lonely and isolated, without a name. But Charles felt as if he knew him, he felt as if he’d known him for a long time, through Erik’s words, his lips, his eyes.

He ran to the third floor and burst into the office without knocking, startling Moira, who was eating her lunch and this time completely enraging her secretary. He told Moira everything, his theories, Operation WALL, Hellfire, Emma’s words, the Memorial Wall.

“Erik’s father was a spy!” Charles gasped and hissed out an almost insane laugh. “That’s the only explanation, Moira, it explains why he was American, it explains why Langley took over the investigation, it explains everything!”

“I’m−” Moira still hadn’t recovered from her shock, “you − okay − sit down, let’s talk about it.”

“Codename H means Hellfire, so maybe his father was in charge for Hellfire, and that organization must have arranged the car crash,” Charles handed Moira the pile of folders in his arms, compliantly sat down on the armchair but didn’t stop talking. “Erik said that his father had taken him to D.C. − several times, actually−”

“Charles,” Moira interrupted him. She put her hands on the open folder. “Do you know what ‘terminate’ means?”

“It means that someone died.”

“It means that someone died under the command of someone else,” Moira said slowly, “and that the command came from Langley.”

Charles went silent. He looked straight into Moira’s eyes and felt as if the blood in his entire body suddenly froze and his fingertips went numb. He hesitantly stood up in order to get rid of that feeling.

“I have to go,” he said uncertainly. Moira frowned.

“Where’re you going?”

“To meet Erik,” it wasn’t until the moment that name left his lips that Charles was finally sure of himself. “That’s right, I got to go and meet him.”

“You know that you shouldn’t do that,” Moira reprimanded and stood up, too.

“But I will,” Charles glanced at Moira as he turned around. “I’m sorry, I have to.”

Charles left the office, Moira called after him, and he started running again. He ran down the corridor, through the emergency door, around the swindling stairs, past the security check, all the way to the parking lot. Charles found his old Honda, dropped himself onto the driver’s seat and fumbled for his keys with trembling fingers. His phone fell onto the seat along with its battery. Charles started the engine and stuck the battery back in, then he dialed a number.

He longed to hear Erik’s voice, and he indeed heard it, it was low and steady like always, but before he could’ve made any sound, he realized that it was just the voice mail.

“Erik, I’m Charles, I’m really − I’m so sorry, listen, please−” the engine droned, Charles turned the steeling wheel with one hand and drove out of the parking lot. “I have to meet you, it’s really important, I swear I won’t lie to you, I’m on my way, please call me back when you get this message, I’ll be at your place, Erik−”

He was held up by a red light. Charles got very anxious and impatient, but this gave him a few more seconds to finish his message properly.

“I’ve never stopped believing you.”

The light turned green and the time for the voice message was also up. Charles tossed his phone on the dashboard, changed gears and stepped on the gas. Then there was a huge bang.

The only thing he was able to actually recall afterwards was that huge bang; it literally torn his forehead, for his head hit the steering wheel with a hard blow, and the inflating airbags almost broke his neck. His Honda spun and skidded into the flood of cars on the opposite lane. Before Charles lost his consciousness, he only blurrily recognized a bright flash of metallic light nearing and only heard countless brakes screaming, then his world sank into complete darkness.

It took Charles a while to sober up. The main reason was that he refused to − he heard people talking even before he opened his eyes, and his eyelids were swollen and aching, as if someone had punched him hard. Then he thought that he probably really had been beaten up, just like that night when he’d been clobbered by those goddamn brats on his way to the restaurant and then abandoned in the alleyway like a piece of garbage. Why would anyone in this world want to do this kind of thing? Why were there people like Kurt on this world, who, out of some kind of ridiculous malice, hurt Raven and hurt him? Now they’d also hurt Erik. He thought that he might’ve broken his rips or something, it probably stuck straight into his heart. Charles’ heart wouldn’t stop aching.

Moira entered his sight and Charles realized that he’d already opened his eyes. His loyal friend looked worried and grim, while her silhouette looked twisted and wobbly. She opened her lips, and it took quite a long time for her voice to be processed by Charles’ brain. She was asking him how he was feeling, Charles took a breath and was about to answer as the icy cold oxygen flooded his nostrils. He noticed that he was wearing an oxygen mask, and it made his answer cloudy and unclear. He told her that he was alright, even though he wasn’t sure. He was at the hospital, after all. God, Raven was going to be worried sick.

“I don’t know what happened,” Charles moaned, “but please don’t tell my sister.”

“Your car crashed,” Moira reminded him, “and too late, the police called Raven the moment they found your ID, right now she’s talking to the doctor… She’s here.”

Moira stepped aside. Charles wanted to pull her back but couldn’t even lift his hand.

“Tell her I’m not awake yet,” Charles warned her weakly, but Raven had already come to his bedside. She was still in Uniform, so she must have come straight from work; she was also crying − Charles couldn’t think of a more threatening combination.

“Can we take this off?” His sister asked quietly. Her fingers brushed over the oxygen mask on Charles’ face as lightly as a feather. “Are you alright?”

“I can’t feel my legs.” The moment the oxygen mask was lift off, Charles instantly felt he’s not going to freeze his nose off. He told the truth; after the words left his lips, he finally sobered up completely. He struggled to get up and take a look at his legs, but Raven gently pushed him back onto the mattress.

“Broken glass got into your legs, they had to take them out and stitch up the wounds, the anesthesia hasn’t worn off yet,” Raven sighed. “I swear to God, I’m gonna kill the guy who ran into you.”

“I love you, too,” Charles huffed out a trembling laugh, then hissed because everything started to hurt again. “Someone ran into me?”

“Some bastard who ran a light, the police have arrested him already.”

“When can I leave the hospital?” Moira’s face appeared in his sight again, she stopped at the other side of the bed. “I have a lot to do, I got to find Erik, I’ve left him a message−”

Raven and Moira exchanged incredulous glances.

“Don’t even think of leaving this bed for the next couple of days, Charles,” Moira declared cruelly and planted a kiss on Charles’ forehead. “And I’m incredibly glad that it’s going to keep you from doing anything stupid.”

She said that she had to return to Langley and was going to come back in the evening before she left the room. Charles and Raven watched her go, then looked at each other for quite some time.

“I have to go back for the shift change,” his sister said unhappily and leaned down to kiss him on his cheek. “The nurses will take care of you. Tell me if they don’t; I’ll be back in an hour, alright?”

“Alright,” Charles replied compliantly. Raven leaned even nearer and whispered into his ear.

“I’ll take care of your worries, just make sure you get some rest.”

She stood up and winked and also left the room. Charles didn’t have the strength to ask her what she meant; he simply spent some time glaring at the white walls before his eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.

Charles threw up the next time he woke up. He wasn’t sure whether he threw up or woke up first, anyways he bent over the bed and made a huge mess on the floor. Raven was sitting on a chair at his bedside, she dropped the magazine in her hands, jumped up and started pushing the call bell with a destructive force and speed. The nurses came and cleaned up the floor as Charles kept apologizing, then they pushed him into all sorts of machines. They told him it was because of the concussion, and put even more pills into Charles’ little paper cup.

It went on like this for five days until they finally reprieved Charles. They told him they were short of beds and that he was able to take care of himself now, and sent him away like he was some annoying boomerang child. Charles was overjoyed, but Raven didn’t like that. On their entire drive back to Charles’ apartment, she kept complaining about how the current healthcare system was shit, how the traffic in D.C. was shit, and how Charles’ health condition was also still shit.

“Can you drive me to Langley?” Charles asked without actually hoping for a positive answer. Raven ignored his request completely.

After they’d arrived at his apartment, his sister helped him unpack his things, for Charles still had to walk with crutches. She sorted out the clothes that had to be washed, cooked a couple of simple dishes and stored them in the fridge, then put tons of pills into a daily pill box. Charles had to repeatedly promise her that he wasn’t going to leave this flat today before she finally went to work reassured.

Charles’ phone broke in the crash, and he didn’t remember that until he found his wireless phone on the bed. Erik’s number was in his contacts, and he didn’t know it by heart, so now he couldn’t get in touch with him. Charles wanted to go to his place right away, but Raven had just left and she might still be downstairs in order to make sure that Charles would keep his promise. So Charles gave up for the time being; the pills made him drowsy, so he put the crutches at his bedside and decided to take a nap.

He almost slept through the entire night. When he woke up with a clear mind and a tired body, Charles looked at the small digital clock on his bedside table and saw that it was 4 a.m. He sighed in disbelief − a few hours later, Raven would return from her night shift. He was torn between going back to sleep and getting up; in the end he forced himself to choose the second option, so he turned around, propped himself up to lean on the headboard and rubbed his face. He hoped that Erik was already awake; since the latter seemed to be a light sleeper, he thought he could try his luck.

Erik indeed was awake. Charles had just lowered his palms as he saw him. He’d apparently took a chair from the kitchen and was now sitting at his bedside, only a foot away from him. He was inexplicably wearing that ironed blue uniform of his; there was nothing in his eyes. It seemed so real; Charles could even smell his scent. Both Charles’ heartbeat and mind were more than calm, but he wasn’t sure why he had nothing to say.

“You should eat that,” Erik spoke up first. He looked at the bedside table; Charles followed his gaze and saw that there was a glass of water and his medication. “Your sister gave very clear orders.”

“I don’t understand,” Charles managed to squeeze out one sentence. Erik was leaning back into his chair and watching him with trembling lashes.

“She called me. Found my number in their database, according to her,” said Erik, his lips a crack that couldn’t really be called a smile. “She said that you’ve been in a car accident, and that we should talk.”

“Did you get my voice message?”

“I did,” he said. “I wanted to delete it straight away, but I listened to it till the end.”

He gazed at Charles as he said every word; both his voice and his gaze were strong and determined. Charles wanted to ask him what that meant, whether he could touch him, but Erik turned away his gaze at that moment.

“What do you want to tell me?” He stared at the pills that Charles should take and asked.

“I found out about your parents, and about other things. I wanted to tell you,” Charles whispered, “then someone ran a red light.”

“Hasn’t that taught you anything, Charles?” Erik’s voice was low and soft, and hovering amidst the dawning darkness.

“What?”

Erik leaned forward.

“ _You_ ran a red light,” Erik said, “you poked your nose in things you shouldn’t know.”

Charles was annoyed, but it wasn’t because of Erik.

“I’ve found the right direction.”

“You almost died.”

“Well they got to try harder, don’t they?”

“If they really wanted you dead, you wouldn’t be lying here talking to me,” Erik pointed out somberly. “This was a warning, and it’s not funny, Charles.”

Charles was silent for a couple of seconds. He realized that it was hard to breath because of the anger that was building up in his stomach, while this kind of provocation was also about to bring out the Erik that he didn’t like to see.

“You’re right,” so he took a step back. “I’m very sorry.”

Erik took a way too heavy breath. His shoulders relaxed a little and he looked at Charles cautiously.

“But who wouldn’t want me to interfere?”

“Who would?” Erik said with a smirk. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to prove your innocence,” Charles raised his voice. “I’m trying to prove that you’re not what they think you are, I’m trying to find out the truth−”

“What do you know about me?” Erik interrupted him. “You know nothing about me.”

“That’s not fair to say.”

“And what do you plan on doing with the truth?” Erik continued. “Do you think that it’s simply buried there without a reason and waiting for the righteous to dig it out? Where do you think the dead bodies are coming from? Do you think− Do you think that there’s only right and wrong in this world and everything we have to do is to choose sides?”

Charles kept silent, not because he couldn’t defend himself, but because he wanted to listen to what Erik had to say; he wanted him to say the things that he’d been carrying with him his entire life, things that he wasn’t able to tell anyone. Charles looked at him enchanted; he thought he would like to just look at him his entire life.

But Erik went quiet under his gaze. His eyes seemed like a fathomless shadow.

“I’ve missed you,” Charles said in a stumbling voice.

“Don’t say that,” Erik said in a low voice.

Then Charles suddenly burst out in tears. He felt so weak and helpless, and every cell in his body was aching. He bit his lips, trying to stop his sobbing; he wiped away the tears with his wrist and desperately wanted to calm down again, so that Erik wouldn’t lose his patience and leave. But the latter was still sitting there, he didn’t show any sign of leaving, he didn’t move. He simply sat there and watched Charles cry; it was like some kind of punishment that was directed at himself.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” finally he said. “I shouldn’t have made that first call. It was all wrong.”

“Please−”

“But how can I not?” Erik muttered in a strangled voice; he covered his face with his palms. “You’re so− You don’t have a goddamn clue how you’re like, Charles, you’re _so_ close to driving me crazy.”

 _Maybe I’m already crazy_ , Charles thought. It wasn’t right and it felt really stupid, but for the first time since he’d parted from Erik, he felt that his heart was pounding stably in his chest and pumping warm blood into his limbs. It made him want to cry even more, but at the same time it stopped his tears.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Charles said. “I’ve never wanted that.”

He shifted near the bedside, and just like cupping a falling flower, he put his arms around Erik’s lowered head. Charles was so scared that he might break free, he didn’t dare to add any strength; he only dropped his gaze and planted feather-light kisses on his hair.

Erik lifted his head when Charles let go of him; there was weakness to be found in his eyes for the first time. He took his palms off his face and touched Charles’ retrieving hands, his fingers sliding over his knuckles, his fingertips, and finally dropping into the cold air.

Erik almost immediately calmed down. He looked at one empty corner of the room, his expression firm but not stiff.

“You think I’m a terrorist,” Erik said.

“Are you?” Charles asked.

Erik paused, then smiled; there was no mockery in his smile − he was going to be honest, Charles could sense it, and he felt relieved.

“Denying science, disbelieving facts, rejecting objections, xenophobic, morbid hatred for the U.S. government,” he said. “You’re the one with the brains, Charles, tell me, have you found any of those characteristics in me?”

“You’ve been taken prisoner, during that time−”

“I haven’t been taken prisoner,” Erik said in a steady tone, as if he didn’t notice how shocking his words were. “I wasn’t even shot down. Just like you, I was trying to find the truth, and the truth found me.”

“What have you done, Erik?”

Erik leaned forward; the first sunrays of the morning fell on his back. Only then Charles realized that the sky was already dawning. Erik lifted up a brown paper bag and put it on the bed.

“I want you to keep this,” he said as he watched Charles take the paper bag.

“What’s this?” Charles asked.

“The truth,” Erik answered. “What do you know about Operation WALL?”

“I know about its purpose and process. I also know that your father might’ve been part of it and was in charge for Hellfire.”

“Before my father died, he’d given this to my uncle. But my uncle didn’t know anything, he was simply a good man who tried his best to bring up the son of his dead brother,” Erik covered Charles hand as he was about to open the bag. “No, I’d rather you didn’t read it. Just keep it; when the time comes, you’ll know who you should hand it to.”

Charles gripped Erik’s fingers.

“Why?” Charles pressed. Erik’s fingertips were icy cold; he met Charles eyes. “Why don’t you do it yourself, Erik?”

“I trust you,” Erik caught his hand and lifted it to his lips and kept it there for a long time. “It makes no sense, but I do. As long as you ask the right questions, I’ll tell you everything.”

“You said you weren’t shot down.”

“As someone who wanted to get into Hellfire, I had to give them something,” Erik said slowly. “A reconnaissance aircraft was a good present.”

“You got into Hellfire?” Charles said incredulously.

“Just like I’ve said, I needed to know what happened,” Erik caressed the back of Charles’ hand with his thumb. “My parents deserved better, Charles. They were outstanding people.”

“What happened then?”

“Two years later, they found out that I was my father’s son.”

“How did they find out?”

“I don’t know. Just like how they were able to find out that my father was an undercover agent. You know everything from there − I was locked up and tortured.”

The sunlight brightened up one side of Erik’s face, it painted his lines and wrinkles and softened the gloom in his eyes.

“But I survived,” he whispered and shook Charles’ hand encouragingly, “only for one purpose, Charles. And that purpose will be fulfilled today.”

He let go of his hand and stood up under Charles’ gaze. He smoothed the tail of his uniform, bend down and cupped Charles’ cheeks. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his, and stayed like that silently for almost an entire minute

“Take your meds,” he said softly between their lips, pulled away and left the room.

Charles tossed his blanket aside and ran after him, and halted him in the living room. He tried his best to remain calm and tranquil as he spoke, because he’d never seen Erik look so satisfied and unburdened.

“Where are you going?” He asked. Erik shrugged.

“Take care of the people who are responsible for these things.”

“You mean killing them.”

“I don’t see any difference.”

“Killing them will not bring you peace, Erik.”

Erik smiled. He stared at Charles curiously.

“Peace was never an option.”

He tried to leave, but Charles halted him again.

“Please, Erik, w−we can talk,” he was scared as Erik pulled down the corners of his mouth; he realized in panic that the latter might knock him down any second and go on doing something Charles didn’t want him to do. “I’ll get you a cup of tea, then we can talk.”

“I don’t need goddamn tea.”

Erik snorted as Charles walked away. He went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. He pushed boxes of tea and coffee aside and took out a paper bag. He opened the bag and went back to the living room with its content in his hand.

Erik was still standing there. He looked at Charles’ face first and was just about to say something as his gaze dropped onto his still lowered hands, and he closed his mouth. He didn’t even look surprised or panicked, on the contrary, he seemed to find it somehow hilariously ironic.

“What, Charles?” He smiled. “Are you going to shoot me?”

“If it’s necessary,” Charles replied calmly and aimed the metal chunk in his hand at Erik. “I won’t let you do anything stupid.”

“Like the stupid thing you’re doing right now?” Erik said as he took several steps forward and quickly closed the distance between them.

“You should better not move,” Charles warned him. “I only want to hit non-life-threatening places, but gunnery is definitely not my strong point.”

Erik smiled at his words; his chest was not even five inches away from the gun.

“Let me help you a bit,” he said, grabbed the barrel and pressed it against his own forehead. “If you want to stop a soldier, then you got to hit life-threatening places.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Charles yelled, but he recoiled, and there was not way Erik hadn’t noticed.

“Come on, pull the trigger,” Erik’s smile disappeared. He gripped Charles’ nape with his spare hand and forced him to keep this dangerous distance. “You know this is the fastest solution, I don’t care, you can find a million excuses to get yourself out of this, and I’ve had enough of fucking everything!”

Erik’s bellows grinded the walls of the room. Charles panted shakily; he gazed at Erik’s eyes over the barrel. He felt that his sweaty hands weren’t able to hold up the gun any longer, while as Erik’s visage turned calm again.

“But you can’t, can you?” Erik’s voice was low and soft. He gripped Charles’ hand and took the gun from him; it made Charles close his eyes painfully. “Because you love me.”

 _Yes_. _Yes_.

“Stupid, stupid Charles.”

Erik pulled him into his arms, or maybe Charles fell into his embrace himself; he clasped him so tightly, it made Charles bury his face into his neck and cough out broken sobs.

“Do you love me?”

“You’ll never get the correct answer, Charles, if you ask the wrong question,” Erik’s voice was calm and warm next to his ear. “You really should have taken your meds.”

Then Charles felt a strong but brief pain, just like that night when he’d been jogging down the street with his hands in his warm pockets and had been hit with a baseball bat in the back of his head. He fell, but what followed was not shoes kicking in his stomach, but thick warmth that supported his body.

Charles could stay in this embrace for the rest of his life, as long as Erik allowed him to do that.


	8. Chapter 8

Charles wasn’t someone who had faith.

He’d never even really prayed to anyone for anything. He was lucky; Kurt’s violence didn’t leave as big a trauma as he had thought and Charles grew up to be an almost healthy man with too much pride and enough ambition to gain almost everything he wanted. He’d never idolized or desired anything, either. If one didn’t include objects of sexual fantasies in his youth, which almost everyone had, Charles truly had never worshipped anyone.

He felt himself drifting into the bottomless sea, soundless and breathless. Then someone’s hands reached under his arms firmly and gripped his chest, and abruptly pulled him out of the water. The refreshing air flooded his lungs, Charles gasped for breath and felt his vision clearing.

He saw Raven, facing him from not even two inches away, her hair tickling his cheeks. Then he felt the back of his head hurting; when he tried to prop himself up on his elbows, he realized that he was lying on the floor of the living room. His head was on Raven’s lap, who was holding him and watching him worriedly.

“I’ve just called the ambulance, stay there,” Raven told him. “It’s probably that goddamn concussion again, I’ve told them that you’re still far from recovered, but−”

“Where’s Erik?” Charles sat up nonetheless and looked around.

“He was here?” Raven asked dubiously. “Have you two talked?”

“Something very bad is going to happen, Raven−” Charles stuttered due to his anxiety and Raven helped him stand up because his leg wasn’t fully healed yet. “I have to borrow your phone.”

Raven looked very confused, but she didn’t say anything and handed him her phone.

Charles stumbled into the study and searched his messy desk for the notebook with Hank’s number on it and finally found it under a pile of thesis.

Hank answered the phone within seconds.

“Hank, it’s me.” Charles said quickly. “Have you got what we talked about?”

‘Are you alright?’ Hank asked. ‘I’ve just heard that you had an accident.’

“I’m fine. Have you got it?”

‘Yes,’ Hank hesitated for a couple of seconds, there was the sound of paper rustling on his side. ‘What do you want to know?’

“Who was in charge for the operation?”

‘Are you on the secure line?’

“No, but I don’t have the time to find a bloody secure line.” Charles massaged his nape and responded impatiently. “Just tell me the name.”

‘It was Shaw,’ Hank lowered his voice and spoke quickly. ‘He’d been vice director then.’

Someone who told him it was important to stay silent, of course. Charles couldn’t say that he was surprised.

“Is Moira there? I need to talk to her.”

‘No, she’s not here. I’m not sure if she’s at her office, either.’

“Thank you, Hank,” Charles thanked him tiredly. “You can’t imagine how much you’ve helped me.”

After he’d hung up, Charles leaned against the desk and searched his contacts for Moira’s number. He didn’t notice when Raven came to his study. She looked at him with questioning eyes.

“What are you doing, Charles?” She asked carefully. Charles shot her a glance.

“I have to find out where Erik is,” Charles tried to answer patiently. He passed by his sister, went to the bedroom and picked up the folder Erik gave him. He could hear Raven’s footsteps following him inside.

“He’s at Dover AFB.”

Charles raised his eyes from his phone; his shocked expression must have confused Raven instead.

“How come you know that?”

“It’s been in the news for a week. They’re having a military exercise there today; Erik was invited to fly with the Thunderbirds,” Raven looked at her watch. “It starts at ten, which is in one and a half hours.”

That meant that Erik was going fly an F-16 Fighting Falcon all on his own, towards whatever he wanted. Charles felt his blood running cold as he finally understood why Erik gave him the documents. He probably wasn’t planning to get out of this alive.

“I have to go there,” Charles said hurriedly and grabbed a random coat from his chair, passed by his sister again and went to the front door. On his way there, he saw that gun lying on the counters in the kitchen, so he picked it up and put it into the pocket of his coat.

“Wait, Charles, what the−” Raven gasped unbelievingly. “Why are you taking your gun?”

“Maybe I have to shoot someone, I don’t know!” Charles bellowed. The gun felt so heavy, it was dragging both his coat and his heart towards the ground. He couldn’t find his car keys in the plate at the door; then he remembered that his Honda had just become a pile of trash. “Fuck!”

Charles stood at the doorway and supported himself on the dresser; it took him ten seconds to become aware of his own outburst and Raven’s silence. He took a deep breath and turned around to face his sister.

“I have to borrow your car,” he said. Raven looked straight at him; surprisingly, she seemed to calm down after his tantrum.

“Charles, it’s in Delaware,” Raven said word for word. “I can lend you my car, but it’s gonna take you two hours even if you take the highway, and that’s without considering the traffic.”

“Can you get me a helicopter?”

“No, but I have a better idea than watching you crash a second time,” she said as she took out Charles’ gun from his pocket against his protests. “And you can’t take this into an AFB.”

Three minutes later they went downstairs and boarded Raven’s Chevy; his sister took out her emergency vehicles lights and attached them to the cartop before she drove onto the street at an unnecessarily high speed and with screaming sirens.

Thanks to the sirens, they were able to ignore all the red lights on their way. Raven weaved in and out through the traffic; Charles sat on the passenger seat and opened the paper bag Erik had given him.

There were only a few documents inside. A part of which were statements from a bank of the Cayman Islands, the others were receipts of a container on a ship. And photographs.

Charles leafed through the black-and-white pictures. The photos were clear and taken from a good angle, mostly frontal shots. They showed heavily clothed men lifting wooden boxes from the container. Some of the wooden boxes at their feet had already been opened; they were full of firearms. Then he recognized the leader of Hellfire, Azazel, who was standing next to the container. The picture only showed his profile, but his scar was clearly to be seen. Charles put down the pictures and was about to take a look at the other documents as a piece of paper fell down.

The handwriting on it was hasty but elegant.

“ _Max, my brother,_ ” some of the letters were written the German way, “ _you know that there are a lot of thing that I haven’t told you properly. You know that I don’t know whom I can still trust. You’ve once asked me how high the pyramid would be, and I can know tell you that it is very high. It took me some time, but I’ve finally found out that the bank account belongs to Sebastian Shaw. You might not know who this man is; I once wished that you’ll never find out, I still do. But I have to hand this information to someone else. My dear brother, he is the one that put me in danger, the one who betrayed his own country and sold weapons of the U.S. army to the enemies of the Soviet Union, trying to achieve some kind of balance._ _Do you remember that old German saying? Zwischen zwei Übeln entscheidet man sich am besten für keines von beiden?_ _If you had to choose between two evils, it’s better not to choose at all. Please take good care of Erik and send him our love; his parents will come home as soon as possible._ ”

Charles put down the letter and gazed at the seemingly never-ending highway through the windshield. Raven looked at him worriedly through the corner of her eye; it almost made his heart ache. He thought about how Erik hadn’t experienced the love and care of his family for such a long time, thought about how long after this letter had been written had he lost his parents forever.

“I don’t know what to do, Raven.” Charles began. Raven retrieved her gaze quietly. “I know that you’ve got a lot of questions.”

“You know what to do, Charles, you always know,” Raven said whole-heartedly. “And you really don’t have to tell me anything.”

But Charles would, maybe not here and now, but he would tell Raven everything, because of all the people he knew, she was the best at keeping secrets, and she was the most protective of him. She was Charles’ only family.

Charles leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on Raven’s shoulder. Then he found Moira’s number in the contacts.

‘Raven?’ Moira sounded dubious, for it was Raven’s name that popped up on her screen. ‘What’s wrong? Did anything happen to Charles?’

“It’s me,” Charles corrected her. “Moira, I have to ask you to go to Dover AFB, I’m on my way there. Erik’s been to my flat, I know everything now.”

‘Both Shaw and Emma are attending, so I’m already there. What’s the matter?’

“How long do we need?” Charles turned his head to ask Raven; the latter answered that they needed ten more minutes. “I’m going to be there in ten minutes, can you tell the guards to let me in?”

‘I think so. Are you going to tell me what is going on?’

“Can you stop Erik from boarding the plane?”

Moira was silent for a couple of seconds.

‘Oh my God,’ then she said in a low voice. ‘It’s today? Did he tell you that it’s today? Right here? Why?’

“Can you stop him?” Charles asked again.

‘N−No, I can’t, the whole squadron’s already on their planes,’ Moira stuttered. ‘I have to tell the people from the military.’

“No, Moira, you can’t do that, we had a deal.” Charles stopped her sternly. “Please, connect me with Erik’s wireless.”

‘That’s an F-16, Charles, even without ammunition, it’s still an F-16.’ Moira raised her voice as well. ‘That’s not a risk I can take.’

“You don’t have evidence, I do!” Charles yelled; the Chevy rattled over the bumpy country road and it was hard for him to keep a steady voice. “Let me talk to him, if it didn’t work, feel free to shoot down the plane, but if you don’t even give me the chance to−”

He halted to even out his breath. Raven was obviously shocked by the content of this conversation; her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel firmly.

“Please, just a couple of minutes.” Charles said in a strangled voice.

Moira’s side of the line was silent for a while, too. Then she putting down her phone and talking to someone in a low voice. They stayed connected, but both sides fell into monotone quiescence. In the meantime, Raven’s Chevy had stopped at the checkpoint. A couple of guards came to check their documents and their car.

“I need you to take this back to D.C.” Charles put the documents and photos back into the paper bag and handed it to Raven. “Store it in the safest place you can think of, alright?”

Raven gripped the bag and also his hand.

“Don’t be too brave, brother.” His sister whispered. She let go before Charles had the time to squeeze her hand back. She hastily wiped her cheek; Charles couldn’t see any tears.

She helped Charles stepping off the car on his crutches, then got back on the driver’s seat and resolutely drove away. Charles didn’t dare to spend too much time to look after her and stumbled past the checkpoint. His phone was still mute as he heard a thundering noise vibrating his eardrums. He raised his head and saw a couple of swift white shadows shooting up the sky, their engines roaring. Only then Charles was finally able to recognize the stars and stripes on the six Thunderbirds. Red, white and blue gleaming under the sunlight.

“For Heaven’s sake−” Charles swore in panic and sped up.

Then his phone that he held at his ear the entire time awoke to life again.

‘This is Magneto One,’ it was Erik’s blank and muffled voice. Charles gazed after the contrails and could almost imagine how he looked like, wearing an oxygen mask.

“Erik,” Charles started carefully. Erik was quiet for a second, then he let out a sigh.

‘Charles,’ he replied simply, emotionless.

“Didn’t guess it was me?”

‘I wish I could say that I’m surprised,’ Erik seemed to be smiling, but not in a friendly way, ‘but no.’

“What are you planning on doing?”

‘You really want to know?’

“Yes, I really want to know.”

‘I’m performing an air demonstration. You might be able to watch it in the news,’ Erik’s tone was careless, ‘there goes a roll, watch.’

Right then Charles was walking around the apron, following the noise. Then he saw the stands not far away on his right; he continued walking towards them as his eyes followed the Thunderbirds in the sky. One of the solos left the formation and climbed the sky vertically, then dove back as it rolled for four or five time. The crowd exploded into applause.

“You’re probably not here to do aerobatics,” Charles felt it hard to find his voice.

‘Of course,’ Erik said softly. ‘But before I fly straight into Shaw, these little tricks still deserve a reward, professor.’

Charles was almost stabbed by the memories that were awaken by those words.

“Don’t do it, Erik,” he begged, his tone was anxious but stern. “There are hundreds of people here. Hundreds of people, innocent, honest…”

‘What do you expect me to say, Charles?’ Erik sounded apathetic and resolute. ‘How do you expect me to react? Apart from telling you that I really don’t care.’

“You’re not like that,” Charles said.

‘No, _you_ don’t want me to be like that,’ Erik countered calmly; there was pity in his voice. ‘I’m sorry to have disappointed you.’

Moira made out Charles from across the stands. She exchanges a couple of words with someone next to her and strode towards him. They were only a dozen feet apart now. Charles knew that he had already spent up his precious time and chance.

Charles wasn’t someone who had faith.

He’d never even really prayed to anyone for anything. He often wished he had, really, right now for example, at least he would know a way − the right way of unreservedly begging someone other than Erik.

“Then become a better man,” he said in a wavering voice. “Stay with me, please, Erik.”

Erik fell silent.

In a time almost as long as a lifetime, Charles wished that he would never hear the engines of those planes again. But the noise only grew louder; he saw that one particular plane leaving the formation again, speeding up and flying towards him from far, far away.

‘I’m very sorry, Charles,’ Erik said in a low voice, ‘but I’m very glad that you’re in my wireless.’

“Do you care about me?”

‘What?’

“I’m trying to ask the right question,” Charles interrupted Erik determinedly. “At least once. It doesn’t matter if it was in the past or right now. Did you care about me, Erik?”

‘Yes.’ His friend said; his voice was heavy. ‘Yes, and you don’t have to use the past tense.’

Moira came to his side now. She was holding a walkie-talkie in one hand; she pulled down the corners of her mouth and frowned. She was looking at Charles questioningly, her expression stern. Charles resolutely shook his head lightly.

“There are hundreds of people here, Erik,” Charles said. “Hundreds of people, including me.”

Erik fell silent again, but only for very short time.

‘Get the fuck out of there,’ his tone was serious, but Charles was able to hear the touch of panic beneath.

“No.”

‘Last warning.’

“What are you going to do? Threaten to kill me?” Charles retorted.

‘I won’t stop, you idiot.’

“I know.”

Silence. Beneath the midday sun, the Falcon was so near Charles was able to see almost all its details, streamlined, elegant, powerful, made for only one purpose, just like his Erik.

The people on the stands were pointing at the plane; under the thundering engines, everything seemed to stand still. Charles saw Shaw and Emma among the crowd.

‘Feel free to shout that you’ve got evidence, Charles, and have them shoot me down.’ Erik finally said. ‘They might not believe you, but they always believe in conspiracy theories.’

“I’m not trying to stop you anymore, Erik,” Charles said and realized that he really meant it. “I’d rather stay with you till the end. Right here.”

His words must have horrified Moira; Charles had to grab her arm to stop her from saying something into her walkie-talkie.

“Charles!”

Moira must have yelled this angrily, but Charles couldn’t hear anything but the engines; he only saw her mouth opening and closing, like a fish on the shore; or maybe they were both in the water, drifting into the bottomless sea, soundless and breathless. The plane flew straight on towards the stands at an unbelievably high speed; the crowd was probably screaming and trying to flee or duck. Charles blinked; he felt moisture on his eyelids, and it brightened his view. The F-16 halted for a precise quarter second right in front of the stands, then turned and shot straight up into the sky, the strong wind flipping several tables and everyone’s coats.

This was most likely to be crowned the best performance of the day. The still-terrified high-ranking officials hesitantly but fervently applauded, while Charles abandoned his crutches, let go of Moira’s arm and started running.

He’d never run so fast, it almost shocked himself; the wound on his leg was bleeding again, but Charles didn’t feel anything. His heartbeat went so fast, his breathing went so fast, and that flawless plane was entering his view; he was heading towards Erik.

The plane landed on a runway in a somewhat enclosed area. It took Charles some time to get there, and he was stopped at the entrance. He simply shoved his CIA documents into their arms and didn’t even slow down. He found the plane with the stars and stripes on the second runway, the engines had already been turned off, the cockpit had been opened, a man in white uniform was descending from the ladder; he was holding his helmet under his arm, his hair was blown messy by the wind. Charles gazed at him from the distance, until the latter also noticed him from the distance.

Erik stopped. He was standing next to his plane; his expression could almost be described as hateful, shameful and painful. He’d betrayed the reason he was alive, he was angry with Charles, but that anger was so tender and mild, it wasn’t aggressive at all; he didn’t even flinch when Charles ran towards him. He was staring at Charles, then he dropped his gaze; he let go of his helmet and it hit the ground with a clunk.

“Why do I feel so miserable?”

He looked like he was about to cry. Charles felt sorrow and pity and fright and joy; he raised his hand but almost didn’t dare to touch Erik, until the latter leaned his face into his palm that was frozen in the air. He looked like he was about to cry, but Charles was the one whose tears dropped first.

“Because you love me.”

Charles susurrated and smiled cautiously. It wasn’t a question, but at the same time it was such a right question. Erik loosened the tight lines on his face and finally showed the wariness that he should be feeling; he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Charles’, his palm gripping his nape, as if they were growing apart, as if something was blossoming between them.

“More than anything,” Erik whispered.

Then the sound of guns being loaded startled them both.

Charles turned his head. Moira was standing a few steps away, holding up her gun, her face like steel.

“Put your hands behind your head,” she told Erik while completely ignoring Charles.

“What are you doing?” Charles said in shock. “Put down the gun.”

“Get lost, Charles.” Moira said coldly, without even looking at him.

“No, you promised me,” Charles subconsciously held Erik behind him. “We had a deal.”

“We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Now get lost.”

“Do what she says,” Erik said behind his back.

“No.”

Moira raised her gun. Erik grabbed Charles’ shoulder and pushed him behind himself.

“Kneel down, hands behind your head.” Moira pointed her gun at the ground and said. Erik laughed; Charles could tell because his shoulders were trembling.

“I won’t let anybody put me into another cell.”

He was walking towards Moira, Charles didn’t know what he was thinking, this was insane, he tried to pull him back and that’s when he heard a gunshot. It was so near, it was such a piercing sound; Erik’s uniform escaped his fingers; he was only inches away. Charles saw him falling and hitting the ground, just like the raging waves that fell into the darkness of the night, almost invisible blood rippling the surface.

Charles cried out, he must have cried out; first he felt a ripping pain at the corners of his mouth, then a burning in his throat, and finally his chest was flooded by endless refusal and insufferableness.

He was heading towards Erik, the same way like he’d followed him and jumped into the sea, the same way like they’d met at the Lincoln Memorial. Charles believed that he would always find him. He could always find him. But someone grabbed his arm from behind, Charles was caught between that force and himself sprinting forward and abruptly dropped on his knees. Erik was simply lying there and wasn’t moving at all, he was just not moving at all, no matter how much Charles yelled and shouted. 

In the corner of his eyes, he saw that Moira was giving some kind of orders. Emma came to her side, they stood side by side and looked at Charles and Erik while exchanging words with each other. It was as if a flare exploded in Charles’ head, and it burned all the way down his throat, seething in his chest.

“You’re on their side,” he murmured unbelievingly in a hoarse voice. “You’re on their−”

Then he wasn’t able to make any other sound. Charles had never hated someone so groundlessly before. Moira’s eyes were so silent, there was even pity in them. The force from behind pulled him up on his aching and wabbly legs; he didn’t even have the time to find out who it was − he was pulled like a piece of luggage and dragged onto the backseat of a van. It wasn’t until the moment the doors were closed that Charles finally caught a glimpse of Hank’s terrified eyes.

The same time as the engine was started, Charles curled himself up on the vacant backseat and devoted all his strength to avert his body from being torn into pieces by the scorching pain in his chest. The pain engulfed his reason, and he couldn’t help but start whimpering in a hoarse voice. The moment when his meaningless muttering turned into Erik’s name, Charles broke into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Only the tagged Archive Warnings apply!**


	9. Chapter 9

Charles was brought back to the hospital. The one he’d left not even twenty-four hours ago.

His mind was clear. There was nothing wrong with him beside the wound on his leg that needed to be stitched up, so the nurses took a wheelchair and ordered him to sit down, and left him waiting for two hours in the busy ER.

Charles didn’t have the slightest clue what he should be thinking about. He’d tried to look for Hank when the nurses carried him off the van, but the car drove away the moment he was lifted from his seat. He stared at his fingers that were resting on his legs, his ten whole and unscathed fingers, and the blood-stained pants beneath them. He thought about Erik, just like always. He thought about all kinds of outcomes:

Erik abandons his plan and descends from his plane. He beats the shit out of Charles, and in his rage he leaves him forever and never sees him again.

Erik abandons his plan and descends from his plan, they hug and leave the States, Charles realize that he’d always wanted to leave the States, and go back to the UK, where Charles still owns a too-big villa and a couple of other estates. If one left out the unpleasant parts, Charles still had lots of memories stored in that house, and he was more than willing to share those with Erik, no matter if they’re good or bad. Or maybe they could go to Heidelberg. Erik would like this idea, he would have so many things he could show Charles, his past, his present and his future; while they would never have to worry about money − if Charles sold his properties in England.

Or Erik holds on to his revenge, and flies the plane into the stands. Charles was standing too near at that time, there was no chance for him to escape. He might be burned to ashes by the fire of the explosion, or ripped into pieces along with the plane. He wouldn’t have survived. He would have died with Erik.

And wasn’t this the most important thing? To live on together, or to die together.

Charles started to feel that maybe this was the best outcome.

Just when he was about to gain some kind of belief in his chaotic thoughts, Raven came. She quickly found Charles in the busy ER, even though he wished to stay unnoticed and silent in the corner. But his sister found him, and it made his heart soften.

Raven walked straight towards him, grabbed the handles and pushed him away from his corner.

“You need to see this,” she said. They reached the nurse station, and Raven asked the nurse to switch on the TV.

They were showing the Breaking News. Charles recognized the announcer; she had brown hair and a pretty oval shaped face. She was the announcer when he first saw Erik’s picture on screen. Unlike the ardent smile she had when she was announcing the homecoming of a hero, she was now looking very somber. The screen behind her was showing a sequence of shots from the Dover AFB. A body was being put into a black body bag and stretchered into an ambulance.

Then Shaw appeared on the screen.

He was standing behind the table at the stands. Such coincidence that it was such a perfect place for a press conference. The head of the CIA also looked somber. He announced the tragic news in front of the entire nation. Their hero, the heart of the United States, 2d Lt Erik Lehnsherr, had died of a stroke while performing with the Thunderbirds today. The lieutenant had endured the pain until his plane had landed safely, fulfilling his oath of protecting his country and her people until the last minute. He couldn’t possibly express his regrets, his shock and his agony. Then Shaw lowered his head, and everyone stood in silent tribute for one and a half minutes that seemed endless.

Then they were showing the body bag, the stretcher and the ambulance again.

That sequence kept stabbing into Charles’ eyes and his burning throat, until the pain fell onto his legs like sand falling down an hourglass, making them heavy and aching and finally, when it became too much for him to endure, he turned around his head.

“Talk to me, Charles,” Raven said in a low voice. “I have to know that you’re alright.”

“Who told you that I’m here?” Charles asked.

“A guy named McCoy, he called my station and said that he was your colleague.”

“Can we go home?” Charles lifted his head and asked; he didn’t care that he sounded like a brat who didn’t want to see the doctor. “I’m tired.”

Raven took a step forward and knelt down in front of his knees. She gazed at Charles, tried to say something but didn’t after all. First she gripped his fingers, then she let go of them again and leaned forward to embrace him.

She was pressing onto Charles’ wound and it hurt a bit, but it really didn’t matter; Charles turned his head, found a comfortable place on her shoulder and simply stayed there.

A couple of minutes later a doctor came to tear them apart. He took off the blood-soaked bandages on Charles’ leg and dealt with his wound with a somehow reproachful and upset expression on his face. Then he prescribed him antibiotics. Charles thought that he looked like a nice guy, and he also had a slight British accent when he talked, so after he’d stitched up the wound, he stopped the doctor from leaving.

“I have sleeping problems,” he said. “Ever since I’ve had that accident. I don’t know if it’s because of the concussion. Can you give me something to help me fall asleep?”

Charles knew that he himself looked friendly and clever, and he was exhausted enough that his baby blue eyes were completely bloodshot; everyone would believe him. Just as he’d expected, the doctor shot him a glance and seemed to feel sorry for him.

“You should better undergo a thorough examination,” the doctor told him, but he had already turned around and came back.

“Of course, if I wasn’t this busy,” Charles said softly, “I would.”

The doctor nodded, leaned down and scribbled something onto the prescription.

“Take care, Mr. Xavier,” he said and left. Charles put the prescription into his pocket and saw Raven wheeling back the wheelchair.

They got the drugs and Raven drove him back home. Actually Charles wasn’t even sure why he’d said that he wanted to go home, because when he arrived at his flat in D.C., he didn’t feel anything like arriving at home. Raven went into the kitchen; she probably was preparing food and his meds. Charles sat down on the sofa and thought that he should move away from here. This was a flat the CIA rented for him, while he didn’t want to have anything to do with them anymore. He needed to go back to New York. Then again he thought, why should he go back to New York? He’d already quitted his job at the university, even though the dean of their faculty had pleaded him to stay and also told him that he was welcomed back at any time. But Charles realized that he’d lost his passion for teaching − or better, he’d lost his passion for almost everything. The reason of this was clear to him. It was normal after a traumatic experience. He had to soothe these feelings, and find a new reason to live on. He would eventually soothe out these feelings, Charles knew that. It was just like when he thought of Kurt now, he didn’t feel fear or any other strong negative emotion anymore. Time was able to heal almost every scar.

His reason to live on was only a few feet away, and she needed him to take care of her.

Then he thought that maybe that shouldn’t be worrying him at all. Maybe the next second his door would be stormed by special forces, and Raven and he would die because they knew too many state secrets.

But his doorway was quiet as always. Raven came back with a sandwich and his meds. She gently ordered him to eat something.

Charles obediently took the food and suddenly realized that his sister didn’t need his care and protection anymore. She had a wonderful job, a wonderful car, wonderful colleagues and friends; she was even seeing the therapist Charles had introduced her to every week. She was gentle and delicate, but she’d been much stronger than Charles even ten years ago. She was cooking and cleaning for him, she was abusing her powers and racing through D.C. for him, she was keeping her mouth shut for him.

She was taking care of him now.

A week ago, Charles might have felt lost and upset, but now he only felt reassured.

“Have you put away the things I gave you?” He asked. Raven nodded.

“Is the place safe?”

“The safest place you can think of,” Raven was about to tell him where it was, but Charles stopped her.

“I don’t need to know where it is,” he said. “Just keep it there. It doesn’t matter if it stays there your entire life.”

Raven nodded again.

“Don’t get involved with anyone from the CIA anymore, alright?” Charles told her in a gentle and calm tone.

“Alright.”

And she watched as Charles quietly ate his sandwich and took his meds.

“I want to go back to New York,” Charles then said. “As soon as possible. I’ll pack my things and return to Columbia.”

“You can come live with me,” Raven suggested. “You can teach here in D.C.”

For a moment Charles thought that it was a nice idea. They could live under the same roof again, and quarrel because of all kinds of pointless things.

“The dean welcomes me back.” In the end he refused. He thought that he didn’t like this city much. The medical system was shit, the traffic was shit, and his life here was also shit. “Do you still want to go to California, Raven?”

Raven looked at him unbelievingly.

“I think I’d rather go to New York to stay with you,” she said hesitantly.

“Maybe you should go to California, there’s much more sunshine there,” Charles encouraged her. “It’s also nice for me if I don’t have to book a hotel when I want to spend my holidays there.”

Raven smiled at his words.

“We’ll see,” she said and watched Charles stand up.

“I should get some sleep,” Charles said.

“I’ll stay.”

Charles didn’t refuse. He planted a kiss on her forehead and stumbled towards his bedroom. He took off his coat, took out a sleeping pill and swallowed it down, then fell on the bed and shut his eyes.

He didn’t dream of anything.

When Charles woke up, Raven was still there. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room. The sky hadn’t darkened completely yet, but it was almost time for dinner, so Charles went into the kitchen and made spaghetti with the remaining ingredients in his fridge. Raven woke up when he was boiling the sauce and came to lend him a hand. Then they ate dinner in silence.

Raven washed the dishes after they’d finished eating. Charles avoided the news channel and muted the TV as he watched it for a while. He couldn’t stop paying attention to the phone or his bell, but they all remained silent. Raven then said that she wanted to stay the night. Charles politely asked her to pack the research documents with him in exchange, so they sealed the card boxes in his study until it was ten o’clock. Raven did most of the talking and Charles listened, just like always.

They slept on the same bed, because Charles only had one bed. The bed was big enough for two, but Raven cuddled him closely. Charles tried to recall the last time they’d slept on the same bed; Raven must have been very young, he remembered that he’d been able to hold her with only one arm.

His sister was sleeping soundly, but Charles stayed awake almost the entire night.

The next morning, when Charles woke up from his light sleep, Raven had already left. She left him a note that she had to go back to her station, and that she might bring something to eat in the afternoon. Charles read the note, stood up and started his morning routine. He ate two slices of cold toast and sorted his documents.

He continued this routine the next couple of days. He didn’t leave his flat unless he needed to, he ate at the same time and had the same amount of food, he showered, took a sleeping pill and slept. The rest of the time he spent reading or packing his belongings that he’d accumulated during the past three years. Raven came to visit him every day; she brought food every time, one time she even got him a bottle of wine. She’d eat with Charles and help him with the packing. She talked a lot about their future with Charles; she told him that she’d already requested a transfer to California, but she wasn’t sure how it’s going to turn out; she said that she’d visit him in New York every weekend, and see that he doesn’t miss a meal.

Charles listened to her and laughed from time to time, while his hands were busy packing box after box. In the meantime, he thought that maybe he really was going to go back to New York, back to his university. He’d be facing those young, uninformed but intelligent faces again, they’d be hungry for knowledge, and he’d guide them, teach them and maybe one day, Charles would feel that his life was full of regrets, but everything would have been worth it. Because harm done to other human beings triggered Charles more than he was a patriot; he didn’t want to get dragged into any other case related to homeland security. He even thought that once he’d gone back to teaching, he’d cancel his classes about criminal psychology.

But that evening, something abruptly struck Charles. He was putting the last folders into the card box; Raven was on shift and hadn’t come yet. His fingers suddenly froze in mid-air. Charles couldn’t tell what kept him from moving; he simply stared at those card boxes and knew that everything was wrong. He felt that the wall he built with sleep and food was crumbling apart; he stared at his fingers that where resting on the card box, his ten whole and unscathed fingers, and the blood-stained pants beneath them. There was no blood. He thought of Erik, Erik, Erik, just like always; he’d never stopped thinking of him.

He remembered his way too plain flat in this terrible city. He remembered those movements of him making sure that he was still in one piece. He remembered him curling up like a fetus in the bathtub. He remembered those sleepless nights. He remembered himself pulling him out of the ocean, their hearts beating like thunder. He remembered him holding his fingers. Their first kiss. The desire and distress he’d seen through the monitor. He remembered him leisurely denying their kiss. He remembered Lincoln Memorial. More kisses. He remembered millions of things he longed to do with him. He remembered separation, reunion, the truth.

He remembered that he loved Erik. More than anything.

Charles was surprised that he didn’t drop a tear. He felt a bit sleepy, so he sealed up the last box before he left his study, took out the wine that he and Raven hadn’t finished drinking the last time from the fridge, poured himself a full glass and went to his bedroom. He took out his meds and wasn’t quite sure how many he’d taken; he didn’t care that he was swallowing them down with alcohol, either. Charles just wanted to have a good night’s sleep.

Then he dropped himself onto his bed and lay on the blankets. He stared at the doorframe and through the doorframe at the empty flat. Maybe five minutes or maybe five hours later, Raven came; Charles could hear her opening the door and walking through the living room. He closed his eyes, and hoped that his sister would assume that he was fast asleep and thus not disturb him. The footfalls indeed stopped at his door, but they also simply stayed there.

Charles opened his eyes in the darkness. He thought about Erik, and he saw Erik.

He was standing there, unscathed, bathed in the lights of the city outside, as if he was glowing himself. He looked around the room, then gazed at Charles, looking somehow reproachful and somehow tender. Charles had thought that he might see someone at a time like this, but he didn’t expect it to be Erik. He hoped that it would be him, he longed that it would be him, but at the same time, he wished it wasn’t him. That’s because it would mean that Charles was dying, and Erik was already dead.

He felt that his mind was getting misty. Erik came towards him, his movements so light that he didn’t even crease the blankets when he sat down. He helped Charles sit up, as gentle as Peter Pan helping Wendy to fly. He put Charles in his embrace. He felt very warm, or maybe Charles was just too cold.

Erik caressed his numb cheek with his finger. And along with that movement, Charles parted his frozen lips.

“You are not alone.”

Charles must have shown a very stupid smile, because a couple of seconds later, Erik smiled as well. His voice was like a dream.

“I know.”

Charles knew that he could stay in this embrace for the rest of his life.

Because Erik finally allowed him to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Only the tagged Archive Warnings apply, so don't worry, there's still a chapter to come!**


	10. Epilogue

When Moira came back from the bathroom, her toothbrush in hand, Angel had just arrived at her desk. She took off her coat and stared at Moira unbelievingly.

“God, Moira, why don’t you just move out of your flat and move in here?” She said. Moira shrugged, walked past her desk and went into her own office. “I’ve put coffee and your letters on your desk.”

After that Moira held a long conference with several other analysts in her office, went to hearings on other floors, went out, came back to Langley, ate a salad and a sandwich for lunch and checked her letters. Most of them were notes from other departments; Moira simply leafed through them, until a brown paper bag without sender, addressee or postmark caught her attention.

She pressed a button on her phone and Angel’s voice came through.

“There’s an anonymous letter on my desk. Did you put it there?”

‘I don’t remember putting it there,’ Angel answered, puzzled. ‘Do you need me come in and to take a look?’

“No need for that.” Moira lifted her finger from the button, turned the bag around and found nothing written on the back, either. She opened the bad without a second thought. Letters that are delivered to Langley undergo strict examinations; maybe an analyst had put it on her desk when Angel was away.

There were only a few documents inside. A part of which were statements from a bank of the Cayman Islands, the others were receipts of a container on a ship, photographs and a piece of paper. The handwriting on it was hasty but elegant, some of the letters were written the German way.

At last, there were a couple of neatly folded notepapers.

_“Moira, my friend,_

_If you are reading this letter now, that means that I’m not here anymore. I hoped to speak to you face-to-face, ask you about everything and explain everything to you in return. But unfortunately, we were not given the chance._

_You shot Erik that day and made him die in front of me. I’ve abandoned my long-term trust in you almost immediately, almost as if trust had never existed between us. Then, for a long time, I was thinking about everything beside Erik, I thought about you, I thought about how I couldn’t have seen through you sooner, how you could’ve hurt me like this. That forced me to think of Erik, to think of the inhumane torture he’d gone through, and I realized that there really were horrible people and things on this world that no one could ever understand. They would hurt you simply because they could, and they would never have to face any consequences._

_I could not accept that. This wasn’t for myself, but for Erik, for Raven, for Hank, for most of the people who couldn’t understand why they were getting hurt._

_Also for you, my friend._

_I’m very sorry that I wasn’t able to trust you until the end the way you trusted me. I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you. I’m sorry that you had to kill Erik. But I’m grateful that you did, because that’s the only way he could have survived − without facing any other kinds of terrible persecution._

_You see, you have to know that I’m not as strong as most people think I am. The majority of my life, I’ve been living for the sake of others. First for my mother and my sister, then for my sister, then for Erik. Because I’m not good enough, I was trying hard to become a better person. I tried to take care of every person I love. Then one day you suddenly realize that they don’t need your care anymore, what would you do? I simply felt a bit tired and wanted to have a good night’s sleep. So, as you already know, I’ve taken some pills and laid down. Then I saw Erik._

_For a second I thought that we were both dead. It made me sad for a moment, but I thought that maybe that wasn’t bad after all. But the next second he reached his finger down my throat and I vomited everything in my stomach onto him. Then I thought, well this doesn’t feel like a dream._

_I was taken to the hospital again. Everyone was raving at me, including the good doctor who’d given me my sleeping pills, I really owe him that one. But I’ve never been this content my entire life, Moira, can you imagine that? As if someone had pushed you down a cliff, then suddenly grabbed you hand and dragged you back up. I became so scared of dying, and so desperate to live on, only because death had once been so near._

_Emma came and told me many things, maybe even too many, including the fact that she was one of the agents who went to Neuruppin to deal with the accident of Erik’s parents and had already became suspicious back then. But you already know that, because you really are on their side. I’m sorry, in a good way. So, both Erik and I hope that you’ll take a look at these self-explaining documents._

_This is a goodbye, then, my friend. We will leave this place, or maybe have already left. Erik doesn’t like his new name, but he says that it doesn’t matter, because I’ll probably never call him by that name. Maybe you’ll know where we are, or maybe even someone as outstanding as you will never find out. But anyways, this is a goodbye, Moira. You know that we will probably never meet again, you’ll have to burn this letter like in those old spy movies and continue to do you job. Because you work for the CIA. You have no choice but to be on your own._

_Please take care of my sister (and introduce Hank to her). I love you very much, this was a wonderful adventure, but I’ll drop out first._

_P.S. Go home, take some rest and eat some real food. You look very tired.”_

Moira abruptly raised her head from the letter, looked around her empty office and at the monotone scenery outside her window. Then she leaned back against her chair and smiled, until Angel’s voice arose from her phone again.

“Ma’am, the deputy director’s here.”

Moira leaned forward and pressed down the answering button.

“Let her in and bring us coffee.” She then pondered for a second. “Maybe bring me a lighter as well.”

THE END  
04.20.2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and kind comments! I wish you all a very happy new year!


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